


The Long Road

by Coymoonrising



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Death Eaters, Gen, Post-First War with Voldemort, Pre-Prisoner of Azkaban, The lost years, invention of wolfsbane, lycanthropy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-02-10 10:44:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12910281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coymoonrising/pseuds/Coymoonrising
Summary: It's been just under one year since the fall of Voldemort, and the deaths of James and Lily. Remus struggles to live a life that he never dreamed would be his. These are the lost years; a missing piece of history, but more than anything, a story of survival.





	1. An Overdue Lunch

**Author's Note:**

> This story is canon-compliant and diverges only to explore what could have been based on logical ideas and headcanons of the time. As an American author I've done my best to emulate British style here, but please let me know if something is out of date or even if there's something spelled incorrectly that I might have missed. 
> 
> The story as it's going to be told is mostly one of survival. I haven't decided where it's going as of this chapter, and I'm just posting it for fun, mostly. I have ideas for the next few chapters, but obviously twelve years is a lot of ground to cover so do bear with me.

_ Thursday, 28 October, 1982 _

The bell over the pawn shop door rang as half a man walked in, a small parcel in his arms. The rest of him was outside, still begging himself not to do this. The aged, wooden sign above the door read ‘Belby’s Baubles’ in light, curling letters, and for half a while Remus simply watched people come and go from inside. But it was raining and bitterly cold, and his wand could only keep so much of that at bay. October leaves stuck to the bottom of his shoe as he headed inside betrayed not for the first time by his aching limbs. 

The inside of the shop was dark and cramped, and it smelled of old paper and something sharper. Not quite mold or mildew, but not quite a welcoming scent, either. It mixed with the stench of ancient leather and dust, and Remus forced out an inaudible cough as he adjusted to the dank air. Not that he needed to be so concerned about the sound: the shelves were stacked dizzyingly high with books, jewelry, cages of whirring and buzzing unidentifiable goods, silver spoons... It was everything, and the kettle it was brewed in. And as the door swung closed on the latch behind him sound was strangled by the sheer mountains of stuff. Remus wiped his feet before stepping onto the grey stone floor, tucking his parcel into the crook of his arm. 

“Welcome,” said a voice like cracked leather. Remus caught the large ears of a House Elf before they disappeared and there came the slap of bare feet against the floor. The Elf was more bones and ear hair these days, but like the practiced servant he was, he bowed low to his master’s latest customer. 

“Welcome to Belby’s Baubles,” he said, and the tip of his nose bent into an L as he pressed still further into his bow. “Where you will find no greater bargain for any and every thing you seek. What are you looking to purchase today?”

Remus pursed his lips, shifting in his shoes. “I’m not here to buy,” he said, and when the Elf looked up at him with curiosity Remus felt the words in his stomach like stones. “I--...I’m here to sell.”

The Elf looked Remus over, as if deciding whether the skinny fellow before him was not simply joking. But when his large eyes fell onto the wrapped bundle, he nodded stiffly and waved for Remus to follow. Weaving through several rows of shelving and skirting some tables stacked high with cages, the Elf took him to the back of the store to a large counter, climbing up onto a stool beneath an absurdly oversized cash register. 

The Elf pointed to a clearly marked region on the countertop, squared off and runed against anything devious. Remus held out his arm, gently unfolding the cloth protecting the item beneath. It was a pocket watch, a golden yellow sun on a bronze chain. The House Elf eyed it carefully, boney fingers reaching for it shakily and Remus fought the urge to clamp his own fingers back over it and hide it away. The chain jingled softly as the Elf lifted it up, examining it in the dim light that filled the place. Remus didn’t breathe. 

“It isn’t worth much,” the Elf said suddenly, still staring at the watch. It twirled in his grip, polished enough that it still glinted in this light. “Ten Galleons.”

“Ten!” Remus stopped himself immediately. “No,” he argued, “it is worth more than ten.” The watch had been in his family for over a hundred years. It belonged to his great-grandfather, and then his grandfather, and to Remus’ own father. When Remus turned 17 and it was gifted to him, he had been so honoured, so proud, so thankful--and not just for the watch, but for making it to that point at all. He graduated Hogwarts wearing it proudly, so full of hope for the future. And it did not belong in a dark, miserable hole such as this. It was worth more than ten.

Sentimentality would get him nowhere, though. So Remus corrected his posture, bucking up. He knew the language he needed. 

“It’s solid gold,” he said carefully, reaching for the clock itself and popping open the face. “See here,” he said, pointing to the inside of the cover. A small hallmark had been pressed into the metal: a crown, over the number 18. 

The Elf scowled. “These are Muggle markings,” he said, the displeasure practically dripping from his lips. “Eight Galleons.”

“Twelve,” Remus pushed. “It won’t fail nearly as quickly as an enchanted one.”

“That may be true,” the Elf replied, “but this is hardly a rare item. If I fill my Master’s shop with junk, what kind of servant would I be? Pocket watches are common. Nobody will buy this, and I will be stuck it for years, even if it does still tick.” 

His ears gave the slightest wiggle on either side of his head. He’d checked!

Remus cleared his throat. “You must be aware of the coming of age tradition. It has no markings on it, and it’s pure gold. It will sell.”

Something must have changed in the tone of his voice or in his face, because the House Elf suddenly clasped his fingers together in front of him and leaned forward ever so slightly. He nodded to himself, and his words came slowly--worse, deliberately: “I can see that this watch means a great deal to you. Perhaps you are better off keeping it.”

It was like his insides had been enchanted, and Remus felt nothing but thick blades of ice run through his blood. No, he needed this. He needed the food, and he needed--he needed the potions, he needed poultices, he needed medicine more than food, and all of it was fading away in front of him.

“Eight,” he said. “Let’s do eight. Smelt it.”

The Elf grinned, and Remus felt the blow before it struck: “It is worth five in gold value.”

“Six,” Remus tried. One more try. He needed this.

The old Elf leaned back, considering Remus one more time. “Five. No more.”

Remus’ heart sank. He felt the Elf’s eyes on him, but Remus stared at his shoes. He couldn’t do with anything less than eight. He recalculated what his possessions were worth in the span of a second, stopping only to consider the few boxes labeled with names he had last seen on a headstone. He could maybe…

No, it was wrong. Those things belong to Harry.

Harry, who is a baby, and who does not need the money. It’s okay, Moony.

_ Moony.  _ He shut that voice out before the ghosts came with it. Lily and James were dead. They had been nearly a year. And he could still hear them so clearly...

Remus nodded. He would have to make due. Somehow.

“Yes,” he said, “alright. Five.”

As the Elf rang him out, Remus held out his palm. “Before you take it, I need to do one thing first.” The Elf gave him a wary look, and Remus added hastily: “I have a lunch appointment to keep. Could I just see the time?”

 

* * *

 

Remus did not actually need to see the time at all. Leaving Belby’s chiming door behind, Remus found himself immediately in the shadow of two grand clock faces: one with a swinging pendulum in a store across the way, and another farther off, looming in the distance beside a slurry of smoke stacks. It was a great stone thing, with large black hands pointing to exactly ten fifty seven. 

No, the last thing Remus needed to check was the time. He was himself a calendar, and his life was lived in segments: wake now, eat then, work, and work, then sleep...

Some of his days were planned to the minute—hours of job interviews and terribly few actual jobs. Then there were the spells to keep his flat secure, the landlady who took money off the top if he could be a dear and trim the hedges and tidy the lawn. She was elderly and going blind, and she had never asked Remus about his scars or cared if he was a few days behind. 

“I wish you’d eat more, dear,” she said to him one day, slipping him an extra fiver as he headed off to do her grocery shopping.

Somehow, even without having a proper job yet, Remus’ life was busier than ever. And that was how Remus liked it. 

Remus charmed himself an umbrella to cover a wide-mouthed yawn, his knuckles unable to do the job on their own. The rain shield was just a secondary benefit when every now and again an icy droplet would still work its way down his collar and across his back. He headed out towards the rest of Diagon Alley proper, to Gringotts where two Galleons were transformed into pounds. Next, he traveled through the smoke and muffled voices of the Leaky Cauldron and out into the gray Muggle world. 

The hustle and bustle of London traffic was muted by the pouring rain hammering the pavements and overflowing drains, and Remus was careful not to walk too close to the street lest he be caught in the spray from careless tires. The hum of electric lights buzzing overhead drew Remus’ eyes skyward, where buildings of impressive size were slightly dizzying considering the proximity to Diagon Alley, where they could not be seen despite being nestled among them. The duality of it could sometimes come as a shock. Remus inhaled the scent of exhaust and kept going.

On his left, there was a small newspaper stand. The headlines were still as stone and the black and white pictures did not wave, or smile, or move about their frames. But perhaps that was a good thing: they detailed more troubles in Ireland; bombings this time. Some things were best not pictured.

Remus yawned again, blinking away his exhaustion as he rounded the corner into an empty alleyway and tucked himself behind a wall of trash bins. The sounds of the city were still uncomfortably loud, and there was an old Muggle a few floors above with the window open ranting about the weather as the forecaster delivered a dreadful forecast to come. But this was a suitable place as any, and Remus let his cast umbrella fade. He pulled his jacket close to his neck, whisking cold water off of his ears. A cat bolted from one of the bins as he Disapparated with a loud crack.

He appeared many miles away to the distressed surprise of a flock of geese. The wind licked against his cheeks and stung his eyes, and Remus blinked away wetness from his gaze to search the surroundings for anyone that may have seen him. Other than the flapping of his own coat in the wind and the fading profanity of the offended fowl, the only sound came from a herd of sheep. And like the city-folk they detested, they ignored him too. 

Remus gave them a quick nod. “Carry on, then,” he said, and he unlocked the gate surrounding their field before the sheepdogs caught his scent. 

 

* * *

The sound of muted chatter and clinking dishes was oddly comforting as Remus settled into a small, wobbly table by the window, a hot cup of tea steaming up the glass in front of him. It was raining even here, and the heat from inside the pub did not mesh well with the raw weather outside and so Remus could not actually see through the window, but he watched as vague, shapeless masses shopped in the streets beyond. Some of the shops were already beginning to display their wares for Christmas, and Remus watched as a group of mothers hurried by discussing the fast approaching chore of buying and dressing the holiday bird.

Y Bwcle Pres was a small, out of the way tavern in the south of Wales, having opened a few hundred years ago and changed very little since. The interior was bucolic, with whitewashed cottage walls and a stripped wood floor that had footpaths older than every patron worn deep into the boards. The window by which Remus sat was tiny and bordered with stained glass in intricate diamond shapes. One of the pieces was chipped, and along with some of the approaching winter chill it let in the sounds of young children laughing and the general hustle and bustle of the impending Halloween. It was very much like the Leaky Cauldron, this place, save for the presence of magic. Sitting inside a tavern drenched in the warm scent of bread and cider, Remus' stomach offered up a low, longing growl.

"Hungry?"

Remus started, and Lyall laughed. "Shall I put in for some scones?"

"Oh--no," Remus said quickly, standing to embrace his father warmly. “Hullo, Dad.”

“It’s good to see you,” Lyall said, and Remus returned the gesture in kind. He stepped back, taking in the sight of his father fully for the first time. Lyall Lupin looked--wet, which was a foolish thing for Remus to notice, but Lyall’s hair, brown like his own, was dripping with rain water like he had been out in the cold for some time. His temples had gone grey with his age, but Lyall still carried himself with a youthful confidence as he took his cloak from his shoulders and hefted it over the back of his chair, smiling with his eyes. Remus offered to move closer to the fire place in the front of the room, but Lyall shook his head. “This is fine,” he said, and Remus couldn’t help but push the warm pot of tea closer to him. 

As the only man in the room with a cloak, Remus was surprised by how few glances were sent Lyall’s way as he poured himself a cup. He added a bit of milk and sugar to before wrapping chilled fingers around the ceramic, sighing into the steam with satisfaction. 

Perhaps it was something he should have expected, Remus thought to himself. His father had been coming here for more than a few years. The city of Caerphilly had changed much since Lyall and Hope had met all those years ago, but this building still stood. There was love in the foundations, or so Remus had been told as a boy. And it certainly seemed true: the structure was aging; tired even. And yet it had survived both Great Wars without a scratch, allowing a young Hope to one day introduce one Lyall Lupin to the house-made soup. What followed thereafter was an adventure in its own right.

"Bit brisk," Lyall announced shortly, and he shivered as his first sip worked some heat back into his bones. “Should have brought an umbrella.”

“Or conjured one,” Remus replied, but his father shook his head. 

“Too many Muggles,” he said, “even if they don’t pay attention. But I don’t mind the rain.”

This he said even as he craned his neck for any onlookers, steam rising from his cloak as he cast a quick drying charm about his clothes. 

“Actually, I’ve been outside all day, anyway,” Lyall went on. “Work business. No real use for an umbrella when you need your hands.”

“What was it today?”

Lyall shrugged. “Just a boggart, nothing special. Locked itself in the garden shed of an old woman and scared the daylights out of her and all of her dinner guests last night.”

“Terrible manners,” said Remus, but Lyall rolled his eyes:

“It took the form of a dead body, which her five year old nephew discovered when he went to collect some toys. The police were called. The Obliviators have had their work cut out for them. The worst part was getting invited in for elevenses, and then struggling to leave for the next hour. Sorry I’m late, by the way.”

Remus grinned. “Don’t be. I had errands to run anyway.”

Above his cup, Lyall’s eyebrows rose curiously.

Remus hesitated. “Gringotts,” he said quickly. “I exchanged a bit of currency for lunch today.”

Lyall waved him away. “I’m not going to invite my son for lunch and then have him pay for his meal. Speaking of,” he added as a pair of bowls were brought to their table. “I see you already ordered. Good lad.”  He found his spoon and made short work of his first bite. “I never tire of this. It hasn’t changed since you were a boy.”

“I remember,” Remus said fondly. And he did, too. The night he picked out his wand was the first to rise up from his memory, followed by his birthday earlier that year, the day he fell and scraped both his shins in the garden, and even the time earlier still when they were on their way to see fireworks for Bonfire Night. Dining out was not a common occurrence, especially as Remus grew older. It was simply not something they could afford, quite frankly, and Remus did his best not to blame himself for that. It didn’t work, of course. Not always. But Remus couldn’t help the warm feeling that rose in his chest when he remembered his mother coming to his bedside one month with a takeaway tin of the same soup cooling in front of him today. It drowned out everything else.

Lyall sighed, his cheeks flush with warmth now instead of winter chill. “So,” he said, “what have you been up to?”

Remus sighed now, but it was one of a much different sort. “Oh, this and that,” he said, spooning himself a large mouthful of soup to buy some time. “Mostly looking for work. How is work, by the way?”

“Fine,” said Lyall, “other than those pesky, uninvited dinner guests. That’s been the most interesting thing to happen to me all week, really.”

“More so than the chandelier poltergeist?”

“Much more. And the boggart didn’t even have to curse. But then,” Lyall said suddenly, “that means you didn’t have any luck at the bookshop.”

“No,” said Remus, shaking his head. “They said that they would owl me within a week to let me know. But I saw the clerk watching me. I think she was suspicious.”

“There’s nothing suspicious about a man applying for a job,” Lyall frowned. “You haven’t done anything illegal.”

_ Except existing _ , Remus wanted to say, but he knew his father’s thoughts on that and he kept his mouth firmly shut.

“If you like, I could search for something at the Ministry,” Lyall went on, but he paused to read Remus’ sudden change in expression. “That’s a no, I take it.”

“I doubt I’d make it past security,” said Remus. “They perform checks, don’t they? On people’s backgrounds?”

“They do, yes, but you’ve got nothing to hide,” Lyall replied. “Right?”

“No, not in the way they’re thinking. But, you know as well as I do that they’d look farther than that.”

Lyall said nothing, switching from his soup to his tea and indulging in a long, thoughtful drink. “You’re worried about the Registry.”

“I would like to keep some distance between the Department and myself, yes,” said Remus. “Working near the Werewolf Capture Unit has never been an idea I particularly fancied.”

His voice had lowered to more a mumble now, and Lyall leaned in over his dishes to hear him over the chatter. He watched as Remus fixated on his own lunch, aware that he was staring and that Remus knew it, but found himself unable to do anything about it. A mix of emotions filled his stomach and jolted the vegetables inside like a stirred cauldron. 

What were the chances of Remus ever being taken by the Capture Unit? Lyall found himself torn: on the one hand, the Unit had continuously failed to capture Fenrir Greyback, who nearly two decades ago had been able to evade them entirely by pretending to be a clueless, homeless Muggle and yet had broken into the Lupin home and irreparably changed their lives. With any known threat, the Werewolf Capture Unit suffered from its low funding and relatively low position in the list of Ministry priorities. But on the other hand, how many times had Lyall and family had to uproot when so much as a whisper of “werewolf” came across their path? Remus was on his own now, no longer under Lyall’s protection. And it was not that Lyall doubted Remus’ ability to keep his own footing, but what would it take, truly, for someone to be cross, or for the wrong thing to be said? It was a fragile thing, this freedom that Remus and Lyall had been allowed to enjoy through the years. He did not wish to test the breaking point.

“That’s too bad,” he said finally, careful to be mild in his delivery. “I heard there is an opening for a bookkeeper down in the Apparition Test Centre. It isn’t much, but the work is steady. And I know how much you love paperwork.”

“Like a headache,” Remus sighed, but Lyall was ready for him:

“If that’s not something you’re interested in, perhaps the opening in the Ludicrous Patents Office.”

Remus laughed. Well, snorted was more like it, and Lyall grinned. 

“Actually,” he said suddenly, “have you considered working for an outside agency? For all the security they tote about these days, they don’t perform nearly the same number of checks on outside employees. It’s a bit ridiculous, actually.”

“Really? The Aurors must have a few things to say on that.”

“Only Alastor Moody, but it’s impossible to get anything past him. What does he say? Continual… something?”

“‘Constant vigilance’.” Remus echoed the crystal clear voice of Moody in his mind as he said it. “Have you seen Alastor?”

“Not for a few weeks. I expect he’s been busy. Now, the work these agencies do is hardly glamorous. The Ministry can’t have House Elves cleaning our bins if we’re representing them, as it were.

“Work is work,” Remus replied, doing his best imitation of casualness. “If I’m honest, I’d considered working for Muggles if I hadn’t found anything within a fortnight.”

Lyall opened his mouth to reply, but closed it. He stirred the soup, fishing out the last carrot ring thoughtfully. “Where have you thought to go?”

“Well,” Remus said quietly, “I thought that Mum’s old company might remember me. Might be willing to work with me.”

“A  _ real estate agency _ ?” Lyall leaned back in his chair. The back of it groaned with age. Another few sips of tea gave Lyall the time he needed to contemplate. “Well, I suppose we moved around often enough while you were growing up that you’d have a fair bit of knowledge on homes. But it’s been so long. You couldn’t have been more than—what, eight? The last time we ever went there?”

“Seven,” said Remus. “I’d just turned seven.”

“That’s not a lot to work with on their part,” said Lyall. “If they remember you at all, they’d remember you as that child.”

“I know, Dad.” Remus never said it was a  _ good  _ idea. But it was an idea, and unfortunately it was just as desperate as it sounded. But Remus was hardly keen on explaining his situation. “I might also try a shop…”

There was a moment of silence between them as they both finished their meals. While they had been talking, the tavern had slowly collected a few more lunch guests and the volume of the room was boisterous as the mood. Someone across the room was talking with his hands to a group of similarly enthused young men: the latest rugby match, won by the Welsh against the English team. The papers they carried in with them were shuffled about their table and their briefcases were tucked under their chairs, something very lucky for the server bending down to serve a tray full of warm beer to the lot. Closer to their table than the men, an elderly couple had stopped in to enjoy a respite from the cold with a hot teapot. The old man spooned some honey into his cup before filling it with boiling water. 

“I’d nearly forgotten this, actually,” Lyall said suddenly, turning his eyes from the room to split the last of their own tea between both his and Remus’ cups. But the last drop from the spout of the teapot saw a shift in the mood at the table. 

“It must be nearly time,” Lyall said, shifting in his seat. “An hour for lunch hardly seems enough sometimes. We ought to do this again. Soon,” he insisted, and Remus nodded. 

“Let me check,” said Remus, and he pulled from his pocket a golden pocket watch. He flipped open the face to view the hands. “It’s nearly half one,” he said, but he stopped. “What?”

Lyall’s brows scrunched. “The watch,” he said. “Have you--done something to it? Had it repaired?”

Remus only wished that was what he had done to it. He forced a laugh he hoped sounded amused. “No, I wish. I think the seconds hand has gone a bit slow.” He tried to put it in his pocket before he answered, but Lyall grew more agitated. 

“Remus,” he said, “let me see it.”

“I didn’t do anything to it, Dad. What do you think you saw?”

Now Lyall frowned. “Remus, I don’t want to ask you again. I had that watch for thirty years before I gave it to you. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

Now Remus felt his heart start to beat it’s way into his throat, and he swallowed. “I don’t--”

The watch shot from its place half tucked into his trousers to land firmly in Lyall’s grip. Lyall’s wand poked just barely out of his sleeve, likely mounted to his wrist for easy—and highly discreet—access. Remus was still as a statue while his father examined the watch.

“Leprechaun gold,” Lyall said. “Not even.” He waved his wrist over the watch and it dissolved into a wisp. “A charm. Where is the original?”

He didn’t look at Remus when he asked, and Remus found that he couldn’t answer. He was trying to discern expression from the side of his father’s face, searching each line for some kind of meaning that would settle the horrific twisting in his stomach. Lyall presses one palm over his eyes to swipe the fringe from his brow, still staring down at this hands where the watch had been. His jaw was stiff and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed tersely. 

“You sold it,” Lyall said, “didn’t you?”

“Dad, I’m sor--”

“Remus, if you needed money, you could have come to me.”

The words were simple, but they stung Remus with shame. 

“I had that watch for nearly thirty years before I gave it to you,” Lyall went on. He still hadn’t looked up, and Remus wished more than anything that he would. “That was my father’s watch. My grandfather’s watch,” he said, and now Remus swore he heard a choke. “It was supposed to go to your own son someday.”

Remus said nothing. He couldn’t swallow. He couldn’t think. There was a part of him begging, pleading with himself to form words but he wasn’t sure that there were any words. His eyes fell to the floor, where they fixated on a dried pea from a dish long consumed. 

He had been a fool. He had been long before this day and before this terrible plan just to make it through a luncheon. Remus had been applying for jobs, so many jobs. And he had been foolish enough to think that one might hire him long enough that he had expended his leftovers from James, and any meager coin he collected from undignified work had to go to making rent on a flat he had kept so long partly through pity. And still he tried! He never told his father about his skipping meals, or his tattered wardrobe. He only wore his best pair of trousers to meet up with him--him, the only one left who seemed to have any interest in him now that the war was over and his usefulness spent!

But that wasn’t true, was it? He felt another wave of guilt at the thought of his last letter from Professor McGonagall, sitting on his dresser at home with no reply even so much as intended. The last year had been a steadily declining hell, begun with a mortal wound that Remus was still waiting to die from. Though the days felt like a constant bleed Remus had kept on, with a small clutch of souls to keep him aware of what the date was and at least make sure he’d eaten. He lied about it more often than not, and it was Lyall who finally drove Remus to meet him out in the real world, with sunlight and the smell of hot food. Their meeting today was not random, but a continuation of some act of generosity that Remus knew now more than ever that he didn’t deserve.

“I’m sorry.”

There was a pause. Remus actually felt his face contort with confusion before the words truly registered. They weren’t his own. He spared a cautious look up at his father. 

Lyall was staring at him, his eyes glossy with unshed emotion. “I’m sorry,” he said again, and to Remus the world seemed to be ringing because this clearly wasn’t right. 

“ _ You’re _ …? Dad, I--”

Lyall put a hand up in a gesture that was still quite rigid. “I’m angry,” he said slowly. “I’m furious. But that watch? Remus, that watch was a thing. Just a thing. I wanted better for it, but what I want more than that is for you to have what you need and knowing that you’ve gone to this length--that you felt you had to sell something so important… I failed you, Remus. I’m your  _ father _ .”

“You didn’t,” Remus blurted immediately, and his hand went to Lyall’s shoulder. “You haven’t.”

“Come home.”

“What?”

Lyall scooped the hand from his shoulder, searching Remus’ face. “I want you to come home. Come and stay with me, here in Wales.”

“Dad, I have a flat. And I’ll get a job. It’s only a matter of time. Don’t you think it would be a bit of a burden, having me after all these years?”

“My child is not a  _ burden _ to me,” Lyall said sternly, stiffly. “And you never have been, Remus. All the moving around we did, how tight our money was... I noticed you paying attention to those things, Remus, and I never wanted that for you. You were a child. And you need to understand that it is  _ never _ a burden to have you at home. You are not some unfortunate thing to have around. You’re my  _ son _ , and I love you.”

“I love you, too, Dad,” Remus said, both because he meant it and for lack of anything else to say. What was he supposed to say, really? Yes, please, that he wanted to return and be the only twenty-two-year-old he knew of living at home? Remus was a fool, but he wasn’t stupid: he was aware of the situation he was in and that he was in need of help. But why was it so hard to explain that he didn’t  _ want _ it?

No, that wasn’t it. He didn’t want to  _ need _ it. Suddenly Remus was years younger, sitting at McGonagall’s desk as she offered him a biscuit and promised to help him find a proper job if it was the last thing she did. More time passed, and Remus was eighteen, staring up at the stars while the grass tickled his arms. Lily was talking to him, but all he could think about was how James had just paid his first months’ rent for him. It didn’t feel right. But it was James, and he was grateful, because it meant he could have something akin to a normal life in the midst of this war and also have a place to go for his moons when the others were on missions. 

Remus hadn’t paid his rent this month, he remembered suddenly. Not yet. And James’ vault was closed and sealed, waiting for Harry James, as it should be. The weight of the gold in Remus’ pocket was that of his entire fortune. 

“Remus?”

Lyall’s voice roused him back to the present, and Remus found that he still had no answer. 

“I’ll find a job,” he said, partially betrayed at the weakness in his tone. “I’ve applied to six places just this week.”

“And what happens if you don’t hear from any of them?”

“Then I’ll look elsewhere. I’ll try Muggle work, like I said.”

“You’ll lose your flat before you do,” Lyall replied. “Remus, you tried to fool me with a fake watch.”

Despite himself, Remus snorted. He knew it was meant to be a mild jab, but he didn’t feel like laughing and he ironed his features back into something neutral. “I can take care of myself, Dad,” he said. “I’ve done it for a few years. I don’t need to be at home.”

Lyall’s face softened. “I know this year has been hard for you. Unbelievably. And I know you haven’t told me everything about before, and I don’t expect you to. Going on what we were dealing at the Ministry, I can’t imagine what you were involved in… You think I want you to come home out of some sense of pity, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. I know you do your best. I know how hard you work, and this is something that I can offer to take some of that burden off of you. This will give you a few less things to worry about a while. Just for a little while, until you have steady work and you’re back on your feet. What do you say?”

Remus was suddenly aware of how tired he was, and not just in body. His head ached. His body ached. The soup had been his breakfast today, and his stomach was already yearning for something more. In the tavern surrounded by souls, Remus had never felt more lonely. 

“I, uh… okay.” He nodded. He hadn’t said the words so much as listened to them come out of his mouth. “Okay.”

Relief and happiness flooded Lyall’s face, crinkling the crows feet around his eyes as he smiled wider than Remus had ever seen. “Excellent!” he said loudly, and Remus couldn’t help but look around for turned heads when, thankfully, there were none. “Wonderful. I can help you pack,” he added quickly, suddenly at an apparent loss for words. “When should we begin?”

Remus smiled, but it was only a mimicry. “Uh,” he said, “well, I haven’t even thought about it. I would need to make arrangements with my landlady, and put things away, of course…”

“Of course,” Lyall nodded. And he clapped his hands together as he stood, swinging his cloak over his shoulders excitedly.  “I can stop by tomorrow and help if you like.”

“Sure,” Remus said, even as he knew while he spoke that he wouldn’t need the help. Somehow he too felt a small flood of relief, but it felt like a stolen object cradled from view. He didn’t want it to disappear while he slept. Better to keep the stone rolling, he supposed. Especially when the relief was dwarfed by a tightness in his chest. 

Remus said goodbye to his father after another awkward exchange. It was strange to be leaving the tavern feeling better than he had when he came, considering not all of him wanted to do this. But he was hopeful, for some reason--hopeful that maybe this way he could get the small savings he wanted, without a rent to pay. That perhaps one of the applications would result in something sooner than he thought. The seasons were changing, and dare he thought it: perhaps something good was in store for the holidays. 

It was only when Remus got home that he realized how wrong he was. 


	2. The Break In

The rain was heavier now. It came pouring down in silvery sheets so thick that the gleam of headlights were scarcely able to penetrate it even as wipers beat furiously across their windscreens. Tucked safely beneath a car parked along the roadside, a cat waited patiently for someone to come and rescue her from the dreadful damp. And she wouldn’t have to wait long: in one moment, another car passed idly by. And in the next, in the place where the car had been, stood a pair of legs.

“Sasha,” Remus greeted her as she sprung from her hiding place and trotted towards him, meowing loudly over the weather and the bell around her neck. She wrapped herself around his leg, shaking herself off and sneezing quietly in the relative safety under his umbrella. She circled his ankles in figure eights as he maneuvered deliberately towards the front door. Each step was a careful game with a cat under foot, but Remus made short work of the stone pathway and let himself inside.

Home was a building that could only be accurately described as a mustard monstrosity. It was a two-resident home that was never meant to be that way. Remus wondered whether that fact alone gave it a withered, grumpy-looking appearance from the street: the yellow paint and curtained windows carried the eye down towards the exterior door, giving the whole thing the look of a great, moaning mouth. Sometime after the War, it was split between its upper and lower floors into a pair of flats: one upstairs, where Remus lived, and another slightly larger one downstairs for the very retired landlady, Mrs. Chambers. Remus passed her door at the bottom of the carpeted stairway on his way up, glancing one last time to check that Sasha had not wandered up behind him to try and sneak in to his flat. She was down at the bottom of the landing cleaning her inner thigh, one leg pointed outwards like a spear as she rid herself of the dreadful outdoors.

A well-worn welcome mat rested below the front door of his flat and Remus scuffed his trainers across it as he fished in his pockets for his keys. Coins, an old chocolate bar wrapper, a receipt—there. He didn’t have many keys, but he squeezed them tightly as he took them out so that they wouldn’t rattle anyway. He plucked the proper key from the bunch and slid it into the lock.

Remus knew right then that something was very wrong.

The keyring dangled uselessly from the lock as Remus reached instinctively for his wand. He hesitated, listening to the sound of a terse breath that pushed its way out of his nose. Suddenly aware of his tongue, he swallowed stiffly as his heart beat further into his throat. He reached for the door.

But then he stopped.

Alastor Moody was someone Remus never wanted to teach another soul again. It wasn’t that he was not good at it; his lessons were always understood by everyone, and they only needed teaching once. But that was because if you didn’t pick it up the first time, there may not be a second.

“Constant vigilance,” Remus mouthed to no one, kneeling silently to practice the lesson he had been taught not long enough ago. He sent his wand around to the four corners of the doorway, a bloodhound seeking any scent of magic.

Finding nothing did not settle his stomach, nor ease the pounding of his chest. Wordless questions pressed against his skull, his mind going faster than he could process. Again he clutched the handle, turning it deliberately slow.

The door opened into the kitchen and Remus heard something solid scraping against the linoleum in front of it as he stepped inside. He held his wand straight out in front of him but loose-yet-firm in hand, just as he had been taught so many years ago. It was a pose that he fell into almost naturally now, after far too much use. He rounded the corner into the room with a spell on his lips, a strung wire ready to snap. But it was no use: he was alone, at least in here. His wand hand did not drop.

It was as though a storm cell or a tornado had been localized in his home: cupboards were open and their shattered contents spewed out across the room. Dishes not simply cracked, but shattered nearly into sand; the exposed inner wiring of the overhead bulbs poking out from their anchoring like metal weeds. His kettle was across the room by the refrigerator, dented frame crumpled and beaten. It looked like it had imploded. The refrigerator was open and the leftovers of a pint of milk trickled across the floor. The remains of a small table and chair had been dragged across the wall, leaving a scar in the wallpaper before being crushed beside the hallway. Remus stepped over a pile of splintered wood as he stepped through.

To the left Remus could see that the bathroom mirror had been shattered and pulled apart. The medicine cabinet behind it was empty and his potions were scattered across the floor, mixing with water from the cracked sink pipes. He winced: he would mourn that loss later. The curtain above the window hung at an angle, and the light that flooded the hallway from the bathroom was gray at best. Remus could barely see as he walked, feeling his way along the wall with his hands. It was cracked; a deep, spider-webbing canyon, like a building after an earthquake rocked the foundations.

The living area had not been spared the assault, either. The sofa and chairs had been upended and stuffing bled out across the carpeting. A vase of dried flowers had been hurled across the room. A shelf still stood, but the books were no more: pages littered the floor like snow. And in the centre of it all was something that made Remus stop in his tracks and his heart go cold:

A great, wide-mouthed skull had been burnt into the floor. Sliding from its teeth was the detailed visage of a winding, coiling snake. Beneath it, there were words carved into the wood:

HE WILL RISE AGAIN

 _Shit._ Oh, _shit_. Remus felt himself stiffen and clench his wand tighter in hand, suddenly unable to draw in a full breath. His head darted about, searching for eyes that he knew he would never find but that he knew must be there. His heart caught in his throat and he drew himself up, willing his lungs to push slow, even breaths.

_They found me._

Remus turned, bolting for the door. Over the remains of his table, of his kitchenware, and down the stairs where a startled Sasha cried out with indignance but he didn’t hear her. He came to a loud, thudding stop at the base of the stairs and began pounding on the other door.

“Mrs. Chambers!”

No reply. Remus pounded again, louder this time. “Mrs. Chambers! Hello? Mrs. Chambers, are you home?”

The silence was by far a worse reply. Remus bounced on his heels, debating to himself what to do, whether to break in. He prayed that she was out of town with her son again, perhaps off to a late lunch or an afternoon appointment. He jiggled her doorknob, knocking desperately. “Mrs. Chambers!”

The door opened just enough for the face of an old woman to peek through the gap. Mrs. Chambers was dressed in a floral-patterned blouse and a tan skirt with stockings, over which she had on a pair of fluffy, white slippers that Sasha stopped to sniff at as she strolled aloofly indoors. The old woman scanned him up and down before opening the door a bit more, holding her collar tightly with one hand. “Mr. Lupin? Is everything alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Remus could only stare at her for a moment which felt like a lifetime. She was alive. _She was alive._ Remus realized she had asked him a question. He forced himself to swallow.

“Mrs. Chambers,” he said, “are you alright? Have you--has anything unusual happened?”

Mrs. Chambers’ eyebrows came together sharply and she frowned. “Not that I’m aware of,” she said slowly. “What’s happened, dear? You’re shaking! And what have you got there, in your hand?”

“I--this?” Remus tucked his wand back into his pocket, cursing himself. “It’s nothing. Mrs. Chambers, have you heard any, uh, noises from upstairs? Anything at all?”

She shook her head. “No, nothing. Dear, just tell me, what’s happened"

“Someone--”, Remus swallowed again, still finding himself short of breath, “--someone broke into my flat.”

Mrs. Chambers’ audibly gasped and her eyes went wide. “Oh, my word--come in, come in, and we’ll use my phone to call the police!”

“No!” Remus reached out quickly as she turned, and he stopped short of reaching her and withdrew his hand. “No, that won’t be necessary: I’ve already alerted them, they’re on their way.”

Mrs. Chambers shoulders relaxed, but she did not appear to be completely at ease. “There was a man,” she said quietly. “He came about an hour ago, asking for you. Do you think he…?”

She went pale and turned abruptly into her kitchen, leaving the door quite ajar. Remus watched her from inside the door frame as she gathered her kettle and put it on to boil, and then began pursuing her cabinets with haste. He could hear her muttering to herself.

“I’m sorry?”

“A statement, dear!” she replied, a little louder. “I said I should write a statement for the police. Have they arrived yet?” She paused, glancing back to him. “Would you mind reaching the biscuits? You’re so very tall, you see. I need to find a pen, while everything is still fresh in my mind!”

She pointed towards the cabinet in question before disappearing into another room. Remus blinked. He grabbed the biscuits and left them on the counter, heading back upstairs before she could come back. He had to send a message.

With no owl to call his own and a fierce pounding in his chest, it was difficult to find a proper memory with which to summon his patronus. But when he did, Alastor arrived practically instantaneously.

“Show me,” he said, his gruff voice calm but urgent. Remus took him to the living room where the dark mark still smoked faintly and the carpet had an even larger expansion of blackened fibres as though the magic were spreading like oil. While his normal eye took in the sight on the floor, Moody’s magical eye swirled this way and that inside its socket, at one point the iris disappearing completely into the back of his head.

Another Auror Apparated behind Moody, and then another. The second one exchanged looks with the first, who grumbled, “Could have gotten here faster if I didn’t have to look it up.” But when they both looked down, they visibly paled.

“Merlin,” the second one whispered. She visibly shuddered. “I thought this was over?”

“Don’t be a fool, Garroway,” Moody snapped quickly. “You-Know-Who may be gone, but he still has loyal followers. What do you think we’ve been doing the past year, sitting on our rears?” He turned to Remus now: “Have you checked the perimeter?”

“No,” Remus replied. “When I realized, I went downstairs to check on Mrs. Chambers. My landlady,” he added when Moody gave him a look. “She did say that there was a man asking for me, though. I think she might be worth talking to.”

With a wave, Moody directed one of the Aurors to inspect the house and the other to go downstairs. “Tell her you’re police,” he said. “And don’t use your name. She could still be under the Imperius curse.”

Remus’ stomach did a flip. He thought of the tea and biscuits. “Don’t eat or drink anything, either!” he called after the woman. He rubbed his hands down his face, cursing himself for his stupidity. “I didn’t even check. I was so concerned, just checking to see if she was even alive…”

“You didn’t think to check? You’re lucky you aren’t dead, Lupin,” said Moody, and even his magical eye turned to glare. “You’ve seen good people die for lesser mistakes. You need to have constant vigilance!”

Remus wanted there to be a joke to be made somewhere, but there was just nothing. He couldn’t believe half of this was happening, if he was honest.

“I know,” he said, his face burning. “I know. ...Does Dumbledore know?”

“Not yet,” Moody replied. “I want to gather up all the evidence before I send him a report. Where were you when this happened?”

“I was out running errands.”

“With who?”

“No one, just me.”

“Where did you go?”

“Diagon Alley, and then I was in Wales. For lunch, with my father.”

Moody frowned. “I knew things took a toll on you, Lupin,” he said, “but I thought even after all this time that you might notice the Death Eaters tracking you. This--”, he pointed to the Dark Mark, “--this is just a message. If they wanted you dead, they could easily have done it already.”

“Then I’ll consider myself lucky that clearly they have something better in mind.”

Moody glowered at him, and Remus could see several thoughts arise in his eye before being banished.

Remus turned away before he could say anything, surveying the damage to his belongings. Most of it wasn’t even his, truth be told: the flat had a second bedroom, and during the war it was given to whoever needed a place to stay. Fabian Prewett had brought the couch, which he had gotten from his uncle. And Frank Longbottom had given Remus the bookshelf after finding it for free on the roadside. “Now you don’t have to keep everything in piles,” he said. It was one of the last times Remus ever saw him again.

Remus wanted more than anything to escape from the memories of his past. He realized now, looking around, that he had actually been living in them.

“I need some air,” he said suddenly, and he turned without another word and headed down the stairs.

Mrs. Chambers’ door was still slightly ajar when he arrived at the bottom. She was seated at her kitchen table eagerly recounting every detail of the mysterious man to the woman Auror, who had yet to touch the tea offered by her host. Remus knocked gently on the door frame.

“Excuse me for interrupting, but, would you mind terribly if I used your telephone?”

“Of course not,” she replied. “Marty had it installed in the hallway, up on the left.”

He thanked his lucky stars that no one had asked him who he was calling. There were not many witches or wizards who even knew how to use a phone, much less owned one. Certainly there were the exceptions, Muggleborns being notable among them. But even half-blood wizards were more and more likely these days to have half an inkling of how to use various Muggle technologies. Remus himself had learned telephone etiquette young, whilst calling his grandparents from wherever they happened to be living at the time. It was a skill his father had learned the hard way.

“I gave him our company’s number,” his mother giggled one day while tucking him into bed, “figuring that he could call me at work. Well, he did--and you would not believe how long the others teased me, asking about “that howling man from the telephone”. He practically screamed!”

Fortunately, with practice, humans tend to improve. Though Hope was gone, the telephone still hung in the living room. And it saw use from time to time, as Lyall kept in touch with Aunt Kitty and even “Uncle” Daniel, his best friend through Hope. It had one other, more urgent use, though, drilled into Remus from a young age: emergency response. 

“Hello?”

“Dad, it’s me.”

There was a pause.

“I’ll be right there."

* * *

 

“So are we _safe_?”

It was a fair question, but one without an easy answer.

“For the time being,” said Moody. He shifted so that one of the other Aurors could photograph where he had been, pausing only to murmur instructions on what to capture next. “Mr. Lupin is safest, of course. But if the Death Eaters have been tracking Remus then they know about you, as well. You can’t expect to stay that way.”

For a brief moment Lyall looked suitably alarmed. But he spared a glance towards his son, and his next words were downright calm: “Just tell me what needs doing.”

Moody’s normal eye observed them both. He took a deep breath. “Has Remus visited your home in the last few months?”

Lyall shook his head. “No. We’ve only seen each other in public settings.”

“That’s good,” said Moody. “That helps. Whoever did this, they’re scattered and scared. More of them get sent to Azkaban every day. They know that you’re family, but they didn’t bother going for all of you. They either don’t care, or they haven’t yet. Probably the former: they’re a dying breed, and they know it. They can’t spare spells on minor targets.”

“Obviously Remus can’t stay here,” Lyall said, looking between them both. “They’ll come back. He should stay with me.”

“Agreed,” said Moody. “But you must understand, Mr. Lupin, that your son isn’t the only one in danger. They may not have targeted you yet, but if they come after Remus again they will see you as just another obstacle. You can’t stay at your home, either.”

Remus looked to Lyall, who, at this news, seemed to have frozen. The way he stared at Alastor, Remus knew he had just been asked the unthinkable. Knowing it was necessary didn’t make standing before the chopping block any better.

“... I understand,” Lyall said finally. He rubbed his thumbs across his knuckles as he held his hands tightly closed. “How long?”

“Hard to say,” Moody replied seriously. “They’ll expect one of us to be watching your home. They won’t do anything immediately. And when they do, it will be hard and fast.”

“So don’t wait,” Lyall said. And as Moody nodded, his shoulders sank as he gave a great, tired sigh. “I understand.”

“What about Mrs. Chambers?” asked Remus suddenly. “She’s eighty-four; a Muggle. She needs protection.”

Moody’s magical eye swirled around to look at Remus and then abruptly turned to look out Moody’s temple. It made Remus a bit sick to imagine what that must feel like.

“We’re going to have an Obliviator come and do what he can. Obviously at her age we don’t want to hurt her. And then someone will be in touch with the son she mentioned. Don’t worry,” he added, “I’ll post a surveillance watch. Her _and_ her son.”

“We’ve finished documenting everything,” the other Auror said abruptly, approaching the group in the gap between sentences. “There’s no sign of any residual magic. No magic at all, actually: there isn’t even a connection to the Floo network.”

Moody glances to Remus with an approving look, then returned to Lyall. “Go home,” he said.

 _I am home_ , Remus caught himself thinking. _Or, I was_. It was hard not to think of this place as home, even as his belongings lay strewn about the floor around him. Everything he owned was destroyed. He had nothing left. But to have spent so much time fighting to keep this roof over his head, saying goodbye like this was dizzyingly unreal. He wanted to wake up any second, but the reality of it all was inescapably tangible.

“I’ll, uh, go get a bag together,” he said, as though he would even find his toothbrush intact. He left his father to deal with Alastor as he slipped away, only once stepping on a piece of broken glass to have it crack under his shoes.

It was only when Remus arrived at his bedroom that he realized the true extent of the damage.

The boxes had been pulled from his closet. Their battered husks lay crumpled under the window nearby while everything inside them had been torn apart. Brightly coloured and easily spotted in the wreckage, his Gryffindor scarf lay shredded into bits and pieces, still half wrapped around his old Prefect badge and his robes, similarly destroyed. His old textbooks lay open and scattered like bodies after a battle, open spines screaming like wide-mouthed victims. There were a few vinyls snapped and shattered. Muggle bands like the Beatles and The Rolling Stones. Remus pushed past all of them, kicking his robes aside and leaving shoe prints on his books.

 _Please_ , he begged, _not these. Not these. Not_ these.

There behind the closet door was a chest marked ‘Potter’, small and made of faded wood, whose hinges had been obliterated. An old copy of _Quidditch Through The Ages_ had been splattered by an unfinished bottle of ink. The scrap books of movie and concert tickets and Gryffindor banners had been flung from its resting place and set on fire. The smouldering remains of a stub lay curling at the top.

One final box lay in tatters on the closet floor, and Remus felt his knees give as he laid eyes upon it. In the beam of stormy light from the window, they beamed up at him: James and Lily Potter, waving beside a Scottish loch with a familiar giant squid in the background. Or, they were supposed to--the picture was still as death, the image browning and bubbling in the center. The photo was the centerpiece of the cover to an album, one which Remus had not looked at for three hundred and fifty seven days. An oily burn spread out from the heart of it: dark magic that could never be repaired.

Remus picked up the album with shaking hands, only dimly aware of a cautious urge not to touch the blackness. The spine cracked as it peeled open, and there they were again: Lily, James, Peter, … Sirius… except their faces had been individually burnt out, and some of the pages slashed completely. Remus could almost see the black tip of a wand pressing down on the pages, white teeth gleaming in green light as his friends were erased from memory. He wanted to vomit.

It was gone. It was all gone.

Remus sank into the floor, upright but only just. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. The world spun and the silence of it was deafening, pounding in his ears as he stared down at the only things he had left of a life lived by someone else. All at once it Remus was in Dumbledore’s office at Hogwarts, and the words hadn’t sunk in: James and Lily Potter. Dead. They recalled him from his mission up north to tell him. Not at Headquarters. Too many people there, too many sad eyes and not enough members gone off to celebrate with so much work still to be done. No, Dumbledore would be the one to tell him because he could shoulder the news. It wouldn’t be right coming from someone else. And high up in that private tower Remus’ world crumbled.

Remus let out a muffled sound, doubling over and holding fistfuls of hair. There was a ringing in his ears now. His shoulders shuddered with the effort to take even the smallest breath.

“I’m sorry,” Dumbledore had said. But Remus never knew what to do with that. How many people over the following months would stay that to him? _I’m sorry._ Sorry for what? Sorry for him? Sorry for James, for Lily? For Peter? What was he supposed to do with _sorry_? Sorry doesn’t change anything. Sorry doesn’t help. Sorry doesn’t bring them back.

Remus remembered the way they _stared_ at him. The looks of pity in people’s eyes, worse somehow than the disgust he was so used to. It was all he could do to get away. From them, from the world, from _everything._ And he ran, like a coward. He ran, and he spent the next few months in a daze that he could barely remember sometimes.

Remus would realize later that he had died with James and Lily all those months ago. His body had simply not caught up.

Suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder, wrapping an arm around his back. “Hey,” someone said in his ear, breath hot on the side of his face. “Hey, _breathe_. Come on!.”

“ _They’re_ _gone_ ,” Remus choked. He wasn’t talking about the photographs. He realized his face was hot and wet and he hated it. “Everything is gone.”

“I know,” Lyall said. He squeezed Remus’ shoulders. “I know.”

It wasn’t comforting. But then, it wasn’t supposed to be. Remus tried to control his breathing, to control his own body and reign in his emotions. But he just choked on a breath halfway in and coughed, unsightly and wet. Lyall made no motion to get away.

"... _Shit_ ," Remus murmured, his words failing him as he stared at his father for a fleeting moment before turning away. "Fuck. I'm sorry."

"No," said Lyall, so sharply that Remus almost looked back at him. "No, don't you dare be sorry, Remus! You've done nothing wrong. You've done nothing to deserve this!"

Remus said nothing. That may be true, but it was meaningless now. It happened. Remus covered his face as another surge of emotion threatened to take him and he struggled to ride it out. 

“Remus,” Lyall said quietly, “come on. Let’s go home. Let’s get you out of this mess.”

“No!”

Remus clutched the damaged album, pressing bent pages closer to his chest. His father didn’t understand. This _was_ home. It was supposed to be. It wasn’t supposed to be like--like _this._ Everything had gone so wrong. _  
_

But Remus thought about what he must look like, and he let the album down a bit harder than he wanted to. He turned it over onto its face to avoid staring at the cover. Then, he pressed loose fingers across the back of his neck to quell the tingle of shame burning beneath his skin.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

“Remus,” Lyall said, coming to stand beside his son but coming no closer. “Don't. Take whatever time you need.”

Remus almost laughed. ‘Time heals all wounds’--that was another cliche people had tossed to him like some sort of bone. But it had yet to fix anything at all, and Remus wondered: exactly much time did he need? How much time had passed around Remus while he watched, motionless, as his life crumbled into dust all around him? It fell at his feet like old drywall, and Remus could never bring himself to reach out and catch it. The weight was getting to be to much. He wondered how long it would be before he collapsed under it.

"There's a bag," he said, "stuffed somewhere in the corner. By the wardrobe. Could you get it?"

Lyall nodded, giving Remus' shoulder another solid squeeze before going to fetch it. The moment allowed Remus a brief pause in which to wipe his eyes and pick up the pieces of his pride. He stood, digging through overturned furniture and down from his destroyed pillows to collect a change of clothes. One of his favourite books had survived the onslaught as well, and he stuffed that into the bag, too.

"Ready when you are," he said quietly.

"Wait."

Remus gave Lyall a curious look, but his father didn't see. He darted towards the far wall, skirting some debris and bending down to survey something on the floor. A well-worn copy of _The Princess Bride_ lay beside the overturned bed. The cover had been ripped clean off and lay not far off, blue ink inside still vivid and sharp: ‘Happy birthday, Lily - Remus’. But that alone was not what caught Lyall’s attention. It was the way the book rested, pages forming a protective shield for something underneath. Lyall bent down to retrieve it.

It was another photo album, this one undecorated and made of simple leather. Some of the photos didn’t move, but that was by design: they were Polaroid film, still shots taken by a Muggle camera. There were other ones that did, though: faces smiling happily up at the plain white ceiling, unaware that they were the last surviving pieces of something too precious for words.

“Here,” said Lyall, handing the album to Remus with the pages wide so that he could see. "I think this is yours."

Remus took it without words, curling his fingers over the pages gently to keep them from any further harm. He flipped through one page, and then another. All of the photos were intact and Remus looked at them for a long time with eyes red and puffy, his smile longing; achingly bittersweet.

After another minute, he closed the book and stored it in his bag.

“Let’s go home, Dad,” he said. And he walked out of his bedroom for the last time.


	3. Per Bubonem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks for the kudos and comments, everyone. And especially to Alala, who has kindly endured my endless shrieks of frustration and even proofread my work, and to whom I owe much with regards to the mere existence of this fic at all. 
> 
> And for anyone curious, 'per bubonem' means 'by owl'.

_Wednesday, 3 November, 1982_

If there is any certainty about British weather, it is uncertainty. Soft rays of sunlight lit up the pages of the Prophet, and Remus’ lips curled upwards just a bit at the irony of dark rain clouds looming over today’s predicted forecast.

It was half twelve, and he’d only just got up. His father was long gone to work, and Remus found the privacy more than acceptable. It had been barely a week since he had moved back home, and he still found it rather surprising to see things in places other than where he himself had left them. A leftover cup now in the sink, an open book closed and bookmarked--constant reminders that Remus was no longer living alone. More than the strange unfamiliarity he felt in his childhood home, this was what Remus disliked the most.

It was not Lyall that he disliked. Rather, it was that being with others meant that there was a certain lack of freedom to--to do things his own way, really.

“I’ve bought some pain potion for you,” said Lyall, the day before the full. It was a nice gesture, especially since all of Remus’ potions were destroyed in the break in. But that wasn’t all.

“Make sure you take it,” he reminded Remus the day of.

“I hope you’re taking enough,” he said, the day after.

“Empty the bottle, Remus,” he said finally, this afternoon, by way of owl--which Remus was supposed was half lucky because it woke him up before dark.

But still. Remus was twenty-two, and no longer a child. More than that, he reasoned: he’d been doing this without his father’s help for plenty long enough. And without help at all after that. And yet here he was, a grown man, waiting for his father to come home from work like he used to do during the summer holidays.

Remus sighed, uncorking the potion bottle and stirring the last of the mixture into his tea. He reminded himself that he was using it because he needed it. _Not_ because he was told to.

He turned over his eggs with his fork, prodding them absentmindedly while he flipped through the Prophet to the jobs listings. There was the one for the bookshop he’d not heard back from. And another one for some position at Gringotts, which he considered for a moment before the thought of the security put him off. It was a night job, anyway, and Remus wanted to stay as diurnal as possible--something that, at this point, he considered a bit of a joke. He could blame the post-moon aches for keeping him in bed this time, but for the rest of the month there was not as easy an excuse.

Oh, perhaps a--no, Remus thought, he was pants at potions. Certainly not good enough to do any professional level potioneering. And there was a shop looking for an apprentice wandkeeper, but it listed divination as one of the required skills to ‘foresee customers coming to shop’. Remus would have rolled his eyes if it weren’t one of Ollivander’s branches.

Other than those, the listings were uncomfortably familiar. Remus let himself frown into his teacup. He’d steeped it too long and the tea was bitter, so the added pain potion only helped make it worse. He made another face and downed it in one go, distracting himself with an article entitled ‘ _Venomous Tentacula Traps Would-Be Burglar._ ’

There would be another edition tomorrow, he told himself. With new jobs, if he was lucky. Another chance to try. He supposed for now that the present demanded enough attention. After all, there was a monumental task still ahead.

Breakfast eaten and tea drunk, Remus took his dishes away to the sink. He could have charmed them to wash themselves, but it was only a handful of things. So he grabbed the self-soaping dishcloth and ran the tap to warm up some water, spending the moment in between cold and hot to admire the view from the window.

A stone wall cut across the rolling hills, separating the property from the road farther down. Before the wall, the depleted garden was a barren patch of earth waiting for a blanket of snow. Nearby was an old yew tree with a line tied on one branch, on which the clothes were hung to dry when the weather allowed. And there was a bird feeder dangling on an iron hook in the grass, on which a determined red squirrel put in quite an effort for the reward of a meal. Beyond the wall, the vast expanse of rolling hills and mountains had gone pale with the coming of winter. The lavenders and the violets of the heather moorland had become brown stems and patches of cold-hardy greenery. The moorlands were broken into segments of ancient farmland, much of it no longer in use save by the flocks of Canadian geese. The fields cut out neat patches of grass until the walls of the Clocaenog forest loomed up to meet them, surrounding both the region and the Lupin house with legions of tall, coniferous softwoods. Farther still, little villages were the only sign of human habitation for miles.  It was both hauntingly beautiful and utterly lonely.

There was one thing that Remus found he actually enjoyed about living here again, and it was the relative peace that came with this distance from civilization. Not that Great Leighs was particularly loud or bothersome—neighboring Braintree or the city of Chelmsford took the cake there. But still: here in the north of Wales, it was utterly quiet. No lorries, no deliveries... The loudest sounds were those Remus made himself.

This was partly why the Lupins had settled here some years ago. And it was something of an occasion: a lifetime of constant migration had come to an end here, and Remus was as proud as he could be of his parents for making it happen. He still remembered the broad, practically exuberant grin on his mother’s face and the way his father stood so tall behind her as they welcomed him in for the first time; welcomed him _home._

Of course, it had everything to do with the fact that he was no longer _at_ home ten months of the year. Once Remus had been invited to Hogwarts properly, his mother had been able to return to work. It took a good few years, but without so many expenses their funds could be put into paying overdue bills, repairing the car, and even put away. In the summer of his fourth year, Remus’ parents announced that they’d been able to secure a deposit for the house. That night, they went to Y Bwcle Pres to celebrate.

It was a happy time for them all, especially where they had gone through so much more than mere financial woes to get to this point. Living in cities was risky with a lycanthrope in the family, but living out in the country could be just as bad, if not worse: when there was no business, private business is everyone’s business. Neighbours either lived far off or uncomfortably close. Gossip was the prevailing method of entertainment in the absence of cinema or more traditional means of avoiding boredom. One whiff of any funny business and it was a dangerous game of intrigue an innocent family with a monstrous secret couldn’t afford to lose.

Even with proper precautions, just living among people had its risks. The kind-hearted among us can cause some of the worst damage: Remus was careless as a child, always seeking to befriend the other children. A parent in the neighborhood naturally became concerned when he disappeared regularly only to return looking battered and bruised. Certain accusations arose. Inquiries were made, and there was one occasion that nearly saw Lyall lose his job. If Remus had been on the Registry, perhaps things would have been easier. Certainly things would have been simpler to explain. But he would have stood even less of a chance at employment on that list than he did now, and it was a blessing counted.

Here, though, in their little slice of moorland, they were far enough from curious eyes to be safe, and with magic, they were never far from people. Here, life provided the Lupins with a small sanctuary that was entirely their own.

Remus caught his finger on a knife in the water, biting his tongue as he was torn back into the present. He washed the cut, cursing himself as he did so: he remembered so bitterly now that they were going to lose this because of him, too.

Finished with the dishes, Remus left them on the rack to dry. His mind fell onto the real task for today: the beginning of the end. It wasn’t right to start packing at random, and before he could do too much, plans would have to be drawn with Lyall--something Remus had so far avoided. Not that Lyall was eager to discuss them, either: he had so far neglected to mention the move to Remus at all, which Remus knew was not out of spite, but nonetheless it did nothing to ease his ever-increasing level of guilt.

There hadn’t even been word of a new place yet, but part of Remus hoped it wouldn’t come at all. It was still very early, of course, but maybe the Death Eaters didn’t know where to find him anymore. He was quite a distance away now from Great Leighs, after all. Even as he thought it, Remus knew the consequences of being wrong, knew it was not a chance worth taking. But his father didn’t deserve this, and knowing that it could potentially have been avoided didn’t help him feel any better about it.

With an irritated sigh, Remus left the kitchen and headed down the hall to his childhood bedroom. Sleeping there now as an adult was like spending the night in a time capsule, and as uncomfortable as Remus was to officially begin the process of moving, he was eager to reclaim this space as his own. It was hard enough to maintain the idea that he was independent when he lived at home. He didn’t need blazing Gryffindor banners and a trunk stuffed with dungbombs making it worse.

Rounding the corner into his room, everything hit at once. The old banners straight from the pitch hung up by the windows above his desk, where Remus passed the summer nights listening to crickets with his homework spread out in front of him. (James never mentioned anyone giving a fuss when he snatched one after a match here or there, and Remus never cared to ask. At the time, he was more happy just to have them than he was concerned about the loss to the school. After all, surely they could be duplicated. That was how Remus justified it to himself, anyway--if he couldn’t be a _good_ Prefect, he could at least try not to be a bad one.) These he removed with care and folded them neatly, placing them into a box he had already marked ‘donations’. He hoped they would find a home through the charity shop, returning to hang with pride in the room of some other Gryffindor, someday.

At the foot of his bed was his Hogwarts trunk, still full of seventh year books and papers, and a dungbomb or two. It was all he had left at the end of the year, which he supposed was actually rather shocking considering what they’d done before they left. One last hurrah, they said. They paid for it, too. Remus thought vaguely about whether to keep any of the marked papers. His father kept all of his awards, and his Prefects badge had come with his salvageable belongings and were already stored with the rest of his “sentimental” things. He supposed his OWL and NEWT scores would probably come in handy at some point. But his textbooks…?

Remus just frowned, piling them into a stack beside the trunk. He’d go through it later. He needed the trunk, anyway.

Across from the trunk was his bookshelf. It barely came to Remus’ shoulder now, but growing up it was his pride and joy. He had always been proud of his collection of stories, and he kept everything tidy even when he needed a chair to reach the top shelf. His favourite to this day was something from Grandpa Lupin: the scaly book of dragons that was kept wrapped by itself on the top lest it burp up a few sparks. On the other side of things, Grandpa Howell had gifted him the tales of King Arthur, and Remus would spend hours in the garden as a Knight of the Round Table gifted in magic like Merlin. For the Muggle take on the legend, the ancient wizard was depicted with surprising accuracy. He glanced at them all once last time before sealing them into the trunk.

It was ridiculous how much stuff he had, Remus realized, and not for the first time. He was just beginning to feel overwhelmed enough to consider sorting things into a bin pile when there was a sudden tapping on the window. Remus jerked around, his wand out almost before he realized he’d snatched it from his side. It pointed dead between the wide, yellow eyes of a tawny owl with a letter in its beak, and at the sight of it she screeched and fell backwards off the windowsill.

“Oh, merciful _Merlin_ \--”

Remus bolted towards the window, cursing as he stubbed his toe on the pile of old textbooks. Heaving the window wide open, a blast of seasonable air sent him shivering as he searched for her. He leaned his head out as far as his shoulders, scanning the ground with another curse ready to launch, when something caught the corner of his eye and he backed out of the window with a yelp. The little owl swooped in with an angry shriek, landing on his desk and fixing him with glare far too penetrating for a creature with no eyebrows. Remus, who had fallen back onto his bed, could only blink back at her.

“Right,” he said, standing up straight and closing the window. “Right.”

The owl just glared some more, hooting crossly at him in indignation. But Remus had noticed the large M pressed in red wax to seal the envelope, and his next words weren’t wise:

“Who’s this from, then?” he said, and the owl’s eyes actually narrowed. She turned away from him and he caught the envelope creasing under pressure from her beak. She eyed the doorway carefully.

Remus swallowed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” he said to her, scraping his fingers along the back of his neck and feeling quite the fool. “You startled me, is all. That was rude of me. Really, I do apologize!”

Her head turned completely around and she looked him over. Remus tried his best to look apologetic.

“Why don’t I get you a little water?” he said finally, inviting her to perch on his shoulder and ride to the kitchen.

Her large eyes blinked. She righted her body with her head and held out a leg. Remus scooped her up and rested her on his shoulder. Her talons poked a little through his jumper, and every time he turned she would dig in a little more. But without any complaint Remus took her straight into the kitchen and put down a tall glass of water on the table for her, hoping the gesture would speak for him. And it did: with some reluctance, she let the envelope go and slid her beak slowly into the water to drink. Remus took up the envelope and headed for the other end of the kitchen to open it, huddling by the fridge as he examined it.

The outside was typical, with another large M in the upper left corner signifying that it had come from the desk of some direct Ministry personnel rather than as an afterthought or a warning flier about recalled cauldrons and the like. It was stamped with the phrase _Per Bubonem,_ meaning that it was official Ministry business rather than private correspondence. That was unusual enough on its own without the next surprise: the sender was Alastor Moody.

A crease formed above Remus’ nose as he pondered this. Why had Moody sent a letter, something easily discovered and traced, rather than say whatever he needed to using a Patronus? And more importantly, why send it using a very public Ministry owl?

Moody, ever a stickler for security, was even more concerned with the fragility of information. It was he who insisted that the Order stop using owls altogether after several members died as a result of interceptions. Owls could always seem to find a letter’s intended recipient, even if they were using aliases. Naturally, the Order became concerned. Remus never knew how they did it, but there were some who elected to be removed from the Post entirely. The owls would find a next of kin or even a neighbour, but then they were at risk. It was not a perfect solution. But it also meant that communication was often impossible save for enchanted two-way mirrors or other similar objects, which were themselves dangerous in that they could be discovered or lost. The system of using one’s Patronus as a messenger was a brilliant solution to the problem, one Remus himself had solved thanks to some of his father’s older work.

So if Moody was sending Remus a message in this way, perhaps it was a warning as well. Or, it could have nothing to do with that at all, and be for a reason often far more protective than any spell: witness testimony and paperwork. Whatever leftover Death Eater was mad enough to still be operating this long after Voldemort’s defeat would by now be aware that Remus had left his flat. And since his stay here in Wales, Remus had not actually seen the protection Moody promised would be watching over his father’s house. Not that he would--a good agent could stay out of sight: invisibility, pure stealth, any number of spells… But Remus hadn’t actually seen--well, he hadn’t seen _anything_ , if he were honest about it, and now perhaps this was a sign that something greater was in place, some measure of protection he hadn’t considered before. Perhaps creating a paper trail was just another layer of that.

Only the contents would tell him more. Remus looked over his shoulder to check on the owl before tapping the seal with his wand. But the letter inside was not at all what he expected: it was just a folded piece of parchment, completely and utterly blank. Remus just smiled.

He should have known. To think that Moody would even bother using simple code, or even write a message outright--maybe Remus had indeed been out of practice too long. Or hit with a hard spell one too many times, more like. Even if he was going public this time, Moody clearly hadn’t left everything to chance.

The paper was blank, but it was in no way empty. It was a trick one James Potter had invented for much less noble purposes as a schoolboy and one which Moody made short work of perfecting. Remus pressed his wand gently onto the centre of the page and cleared his throat, lowering his voice to a near whisper.

“ _The beginning is the end, is the beginning_ ,” he said. At the sound of the password, smudges of black ink bled from the tip of Remus’ wand and across the page, swirling and zig-zagging in elaborate fashion into symbols, then letters, and then finally, words. The words floated over the parchment, bumping into one another as they arranged themselves into coherent sentences. And within a moment, the last word and final period were scuttling over the other letters to reach their places in line, and the message was revealed at last:

_Remus,_

_Meet me here at the Ministry as soon as you can._

_Don’t talk to anyone. And don’t go anywhere that you don’t have to._

_Alastor Moody_

Remus frowned, letting his hands fall to his sides. At once, the edges of the parchment began to smoke and before Remus had time to drop it to the floor it had combusted entirely, leaving only a dusting of ash on the tiles.

_Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t go anywhere that you don’t have to._

Remus looked out the window again, out over the endless expanse of nothingness that separated the Lupins from proper civilization. He doubted he could even get a takeaway delivered here, Apparition or no. He supposed he would just have to do his best not to have a riveting conversation with the trees.

Remus rolled his eyes, but only at himself: his life was in danger, and so was his father’s. He should be taking this seriously. The legs of the kitchen chair screeched as Remus pulled it out and threw himself into it, resting his head in his arms atop the table. He didn’t even bother to clean up the ash pile on the floor. The cold surface of the table felt nice against his forehead, and Remus let himself forget everything else but that for just a moment. He felt his breath rebound against his face every time he exhaled, air rushing past his ears in hot waves that left the table dotted with a thin layer of condensation.

Then something nibbled at his ear.

Remus groaned. He lifted his head up just enough to glance at the owl, and she shuffled on her feet before bobbing her head from side to side. He’d almost forgotten about her.

“You must be tired,” he said to her. She just continued to stare at him, something which Remus took as a yes. It was quite a ways to here from London, after all. “Here,” he went on, sitting up and offering her his arm again. “I’ll set you up in Archimedes’ old box. Unless you want to help me pack…”

 

* * *

 

Lyall arrived home at around quarter past five, though Remus was elbow-deep into a box of old school things he’d pulled from his closet and didn’t notice until a set of knuckles rapped against the doorframe.

“Hi,” said Lyall, leaning up against the darkened wood. He’d already undone his tie and it hung limply over his shoulders, giving his casual greeting an added feeling of boyishness that didn’t sit well with the image of Lyall Lupin, professional government worker, world-renowned creatures expert, and long-time father. Lyall’s eyes carried him around the near empty room, filled now only with boxes, bare furniture, and the son to whom it all belonged.

“I didn’t hear the fireplace,” Remus said by way of greeting and apology. “I lost track of time.”

“I can see you’ve been busy,” Lyall nodded in agreement. He looked both impressed and just a bit dejected, and when he stepped into the room to get a better look his fingers traced shaded lines on the white plaster where a poster once hung. Clutched in his opposite arm was a brown paper bag. “I got something for dinner,” he said, seeing the curious way Remus glanced at it. “You hungry?”

Not really. This brand of pain potion took away his appetite. “Yeah, alright. It’s early, though, don’t you think?.”

“I can bring it back,” Lyall grinned, offering his free hand to help Remus up from the floor. “If you don’t want it, I mean. I won’t bother putting a warming charm on it. Or better yet, the wildlife can have it. As it stands, I think my feeder’s empty again.”

Remus thought back to breakfast this afternoon, to the squirrel. “I think it is,” he agreed quietly. He held out his arms, into which Lyall gladly placed the bag of food. It was warm and oddly comforting in his hands, and it smelled like-- “Chinese?”

“Mhm,” Lyall nodded. He was shouldering off his cloak, and he bundled it in his arms before he glanced to Remus one more time: “Still want me to bring it back?”

Remus realized he’d opened the bag to examine the contents and had to stop himself reaching in. He coughed, feeling his face flush. “No. No, I’ll--er, go put some plates out.”

Lyall grinned the entire way to the kitchen, finally smirking to himself as he hung his cloak by the door. Remus did his best to ignore him, but parents are challenging creatures.

“You did take your potion?” Lyall said briskly as he started the kettle boiling with his wand.

“Yes,” Remus sighed, trying and failing not to sound like an annoyed teenage boy. “Hand me that spoon, will you?”

Lyall did so, and grabbed a pair of tea cups for the pair of them before settling down at the table. “What’s that on the floor?”

“Oh, shit.” Remus vanished the pile of what used to be a letter. “I forgot to clean that up…”

“Language,” said Lyall. “And as for your comment earlier: I would never take the Floo to work. It’s too far away to bother.”

“But you do have powder,” Remus said. He’d seen it in a little jar above the mantle and thanked Merlin they didn’t have any cats at home to knock it over. “I suppose I just assumed you used it for work. Why keep it, then?”

“This may come as a surprise, but I do have a life,” Lyall replied. “Sometimes it does get used. Your Aunt Kitty practically insists I use it every time I visit. She says it’s ‘ _absolutely fascinating._ ’” This last he said with a notably higher pitch and a strong Cardiff accent.

“That does sound like her,” Remus laughed. He couldn’t help it. “But she’s a Muggle. How did you get her house connected to the network?”

“I know a guy,” Lyall replied with a shrug. “It helps when you work for the Ministry.”

“Clearly,” said Remus. “What does her husband say?”

“He doesn’t. Since he and the children are Muggles, Kitty and I tend to just have lunch while they’re all off from home. But you know the law: immediate family only, and since they only married more recently and therefore he has no direct ties, he _doesn’t need to know_ , as it were.”

“Just as well, I suppose,” Remus offered lightly. “Moody might come and terrorize us in our sleep to prove a point if he were aware that you were still connected to the Network.”

“What makes you think he isn’t?” Lyall asked, and over the box of rice Remus gave him a look. “You haven’t seen the care he’s taking at work. There’s a man that I’ve never seen before, just started in my department… I know it’s Alastor’s doing. He’s having me under surveillance, or some sort of guard. I can’t decide which is more uncomfortable.”

“You’re certain it isn’t just some new hire?”

Lyall actually scoffed. “Remus,” he said, “I’m the senior staff member, so I would have been informed and done interviews, that sort of thing. He just showed up out of nowhere with transfer papers in hand. This stinks of Auror meddling, and I don’t need a magical eye to see it.”

“Has anyone said anything?”

“No. The rest of the staff are surprised, but accepting. What else can they do? We weren’t looking for anyone new, but he has documentation behind him and he’s Ministry at the end of the day. Over lunch I heard some of the speculating that he was someone’s son, or nephew. At the worst, they seem to think that perhaps he’s come to assess our performance; something to do with higher-ups, gauging the worth of the department. The outboxes haven’t been this packed for years, so I suppose there’s a silver lining to be had. Still, I can’t wait for this to be over. But even when all of this dust settles and things return to normal, his disappearance will cause just as much talk.”

As Remus listened to this, he couldn’t help but frown. It was no secret that the Ministry had been infiltrated during the war. The number of people that came forward claiming to have been under the Imperius curse was disturbing at its most mild. But was it likely that even a year out from the fall of Voldemort, someone as relatively unimportant as Lyall would be targeted in the very heart of the government? Remus thought that perhaps on his way home, or under cover of night... but not so openly as this, not while he was surrounded by hundreds of people at work. The fact that Moody clearly thought otherwise was alarming.

“Dad,” he said, “is there anyone within your department who was--when the war ended, who claimed to have been bewitched?”

“Oh, plenty,” Lyall replied. “Harold Baxter, Amelia Goodnow, Regina Ramsey… when the Death Eaters were searching for the locations of the giants and the werewolf colonies, that sort of thing, they Imperiused a number of us in order to get the information they needed. And then anyone they could use to help control the creatures they wanted. We didn’t suffer the losses some of the other Departments did, but we certainly weren’t unscathed.”

“Do you have anyone you could think to single out? Anyone you might consider suspicious?”

“As in, do I think I could name someone who could put my life at risk?” Lyall sighed. “No. Even the Executioner was Imperiused, and he’s a foul example of a man. But most of the people affected I believe to be honest. If Alastor feels otherwise, it would be because he’s a suspicious man--and rightly so--but not because any of them have openly threatened my life. For now, I’m viewing this as an act of caution rather than as a necessary protection. Let’s hope it doesn’t go beyond that.”

“Speaking of Moody,” Remus said slowly, “Alastor wrote. Be quiet if you go into your office, by the way: the owl he used is-- _temperamental_.”

Lyall took his time chewing his food before responding, glancing thoughtfully down the hall towards the study and then back towards Remus. “What did he say?”

“That he wants to arrange a meeting as soon as possible.”

“Excellent,” Lyall replied. “How about tomorrow?”

Remus coughed up half the tea he had begun to drink. “Tomorrow?”

Lyall waited patiently for Remus to catch his breath, albeit with a look of concern knitting his features. “Is that a problem?”

“No! No, I was just--surprised,” Remus said, and it was the truth. “This is--all of this--it’s happening much faster than I anticipated. I thought the investigation would take longer.”

Lyall paused to really consider Remus for a moment. “Are you really not happy about this?” he asked.

 _I am_ , Remus was about to say, but his throat closed up as the words were about to emerge. Then _No, I’m not_ , but he had no luck there, either. So he settled on saying nothing at all.

The truth of the matter was that Remus wasn’t sure what he felt. He thought he knew what he was _supposed_ to be feeling, but it was becoming harder and harder to remember what that was. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but there were days when he sometimes didn’t feel a thing. Not happiness, not sadness, not anger or pain. Life marched forward as it is wont, but Remus felt more and more that he was not a participant at all. Now, with everything happening, it was taking longer than it should to grasp it all. It hardly felt real. Especially when Remus had thought that this part of his life was over.

It was odd enough by itself that he even considered it having an end: Remus had been told, as had they all, that someday, Voldemort would return. And he knew along with the rest of the Order that a sizeable chunk of his followers continued to walk freely, even to this day. But when he emerged from the fog of mourning, Moody had taken over the hunt for any remaining Death Eaters as part of official Auror business. The sun rose on a time of peace once again, and the Order had been disbanded.

But Remus still did not feel like himself. Trauma and mourning gave way to something altogether different, but colder. And when Remus thought of facing down another Death Eater, it was only exhaustion that he felt. And he was ashamed for it.

“I suppose I’m just surprised, is all,” he managed finally.

“Remus,” Lyall said slowly, “would you consider working for the temp agency? I know we spoke of it before, and I know you weren’t thrilled. But all things considered, I wonder if staying close by would actually be the best course of action?”

“How do you mean?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Lyall picked up the copy of the Prophet that was left on the table from earlier. “I know you want a job of your own, and that’s commendable. But there are Death Eaters involved now, and isn’t it wise to lay low? What if they found you through your job?”

Remus’ jaw gave an inaudible click as he slid it back and forth. In other words, _what if they killed your boss to get to you?_ It was something Remus had tried not to think about. He never actually expected to be hired, truth be told. But he knew that if one application proved lucrative he would gladly answer the invitation to work. Realizing now how selfish this was, Remus stared at the wood grain in the table.

How out of touch had he become in a year that he would carelessly risk the lives of strangers to get ahead? Comfortable, Remus realized— he’s grown _comfortable_ with the lack of open war, with the lack of constant death. He’d allowed himself to get sloppy after the deaths of James, Lily, and Peter. He’d forgotten what was at stake because he’d been too self absorbed. And now, having failed to notice the danger following him, he had endangered his only family and sat here being schooled in what was fundamentally basic protection by his own father.

“He says they do have an opening,” Lyall was saying, though over the ringing in his ears Remus barely understood. “He even offered an interview slot tomorrow, if you want.”

“I—what?” Remus actually had to blink. “The temp agency?

“I spoke with the hiring supervisor,” Lyall said. “Bradley Finch? Were you listening?”

“Yes, of course,” Remus lied. “I’m surprised he would offer it so soon. That’s why you want me to see Alastor tomorrow.”

“That’s part of it,” Lyall nodded. “It isn’t glamorous, Remus, but you would be getting the job on your own skill by interviewing for it. And being so close to the Aurors can’t be a bad thing while Death Eaters loom overhead.”

It would keep him close to his father, too. But Remus decided not to bring that up. “I suppose it’s worth a try,” he said instead.

He wished his heart was half as enthusiastic as his voice. He wanted to try and be hopeful, but he wasn’t sure what exactly to hope for. Maybe, Remus decided, that would be a thought for tomorrow. It would come whether he was ready for it or not, and as dinner came to an end and the onset of evening triggered the preparations for morning Remus realized he had a lot more work ahead of him than he had thought.


	4. The Ministry of Magic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys and your comments and kudos make my day! I wasn't expecting much at all out of this fic and I seem to get more excited every day. And hearing that other people are excited too makes it more fun, so thank you!

_Thursday, November 4, 1982_

Remus barely slept. His dreams were full of burning buildings and metallic masks. When he awoke it was well before his alarm was due to go off, but at some point, enough is enough. He was in the kitchen finishing his second cup of tea by the time his father came down to join him.

“You’re up early,” Lyall said, helping himself to a cup as though that wasn’t the single most obvious statement he could have made.

“Wanted to make a good impression,” Remus shrugged. “I thought I might try not looking as though I’d just rolled out of bed.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” said Lyall. “Don’t be nervous. Finch is about as harmless as they come.”

If only he were the cause for concern.

Getting to London was the easiest part of the journey. Apparition really was the easiest way to travel, despite its dangerous reputation. But only those with clearance were allowed to Apparate into the Ministry directly, and they joined those travelers arriving by Floo in the Atrium beneath the ground. Most preferred to appear in their offices directly rather than have to take the lifts, but security necessitated sacrifices from all. It was a convenient way to monitor who was coming and going in a time when that information was of absolute necessity. Unfortunately for mere visitors, their arrival was not in any way nearly as convenient.

Two pops in quick succession, and another pair of bodies arrived in Diagon Alley. The sudden exposure to cold air bit at the their faces and sleepy wisps of fog rolled off of their lips, but they were not the only ones enduring the chill this morning. Some of the shop windows were dark, but even now the street was flourishing with commerce. It would only get busier as the day wore on.

Through the back door of the Leaky Cauldron and out onto the roaring London streets, the morning commute was a daily migration for thousands of people just trying to live their lives as best they could. Remus counted himself among them, but distantly so: for every similarity between the people around him, he was in a thousand ways more different than they could understand. Not the least of which was his magical blood, but walking in the shadows of skyscrapers while knowing of the world that lay beneath the Underground… sometimes walking down the street felt like a secret in its own right.

Knowing that he would be taking this route to work today, Lyall has forgone his traditional robes in favor of trousers and a shirt beneath a warm, brown jumper. For many wizards and witches, Muggle fashion was something like a foreign language: every native speaker can tell that something is not quite right, but they can ignore the faux pas if you’re polite enough. So a wizard who tries to buy a newspaper from a Muggle while wearing a bright green pointed hat (which may or may not be buzzing quietly) is just written off as _unusual._ Lyall, though, was as fluent a speaker as his son. Marrying a Muggle has been known to fill the strange gaps in culture, and neither he nor Remus garnered the slightest look as they wove their way through the web of streets.

Left, then right. Past the newspaper stand and across a busy junction. There was a restaurant open for breakfast and the scent of fried kippers wafted across the pavement. Several besuited men and women were walking uncomfortably into the street and around scaffolding for building reconstruction, and the commuters in vehicles shook their heads at the absurdity of it all.

Farther they walked. And the farther they did, the smaller the buildings became. Fumes of traffic and coffee became those of steam vents from beneath the concrete crust, became the uncomfortably strong odor wafting from a storm drain as though something had fallen in and become trapped. The two men passed under a skyway and then just a bit further until they had reached a street with squalid-looking buildings. They were mostly offices, but there was one pub which probably saw most of its business come from right along this street, judging the way an overflowing rubbish skip crested off the whole view of the area.

For the guest entrance to the seat of government, it couldn’t have been in a seedier location. And that was exactly what they wanted. No one was there to watch as two adult men headed for an aging telephone box and crammed themselves inside.

Remus yelped a little as Lyall’s weight came crashing down on his toes. His elbows pushed into the glass panels on either side, and there was a heinous smell that he wanted desperately to be coming from the skip and not beneath his shoes.

“This is bigger than I remember,” he said.

“It has been a while, hasn’t it?” Lyall replied, not at all phased by his son’s dreadful sense of humour. “You were, what, eight?”

“Nine,” said Remus, and he did his best to duck so that Lyall could twist his arm overhead and reach the dials. “I’d just turned-- _ow_ \--nine, I think. Mam had to care for the old woman across the road. Fell and broke her hip.”

“Oh, yes.” Lyall smiled as he pulled the receiver off of the mount and examined the dial. “Oh, dear, Edith is going to be so pleased to see you. You’re much taller now. I daresay she won’t be able to reach you. You remember her, don’t you?”

Oh, he certainly did. But oh, how he wished he didn’t. Remus would have made a face, but an elbow pegged him in the ribs and he wished his father would just hurry up. He may not make it to her at this rate.

“Do you remember the number?” he pushed. He was breathing out of his mouth now, because the smell was unbearable.

“Alright, yes, yes.” Lyall held out his hand and reached for the dial. “Six, two, four--er… Merlin’s beard, it’s been so long--alright, Remus, hold your hippogriffs! Stop moving! So that’s six, two, four, then--ah, yes, another four, and… two.”

As Lyall released the dial and it whirred back into place, a female voice spoke within the confines of the telephone box--but not from the receiver, still held aloft in Lyall’s other hand. It came from all around, crisp and clear as though she were there with them.

“Welcome to the Ministry of Magic,” she said. “Please state your name and business.”

There was a brief pause as both Lupins looked briefly at one another. It wasn’t as though they had actually _scheduled_ any of the meetings Remus would be having, not exactly.

“Please state your name and business,” the voice said again, only louder this time, and somehow sterner.

“Er--Lyall Lupin, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, here with my son, Remus.”

“Visitor, please state your business,” the voice said.

“I’m here to speak with Auror Moody,” Remus said quickly. “About an ongoing investigation. He’s asked to see me.”

Silence. Then, “Thank you. Visitor, please take this badge and fix it to the front of your robes.”

There was a rattle and a click, and from the coin return slot a tiny metallic button emerged from within the telephone apparatus which read, _Remus Lupin, Criminal Investigation_. Remus pinned it to the front of his jacket with great reluctance. He made a note to cover it when he spoke to Mr. Finch.

The telephone box shuddered and gave a sudden lurch, and slowly it began to descend. The sky overhead was dim with clouds, but it was nothing compared to the darkness that swallowed them as they sank into the street. Remus took one last look at the nearby pub and the overflowing bin before the last of the light was snuffed out.

Dull grinding narrated their journey into the earth, but the female voice had not left them quite yet.

“Visitor, you are required to submit to a search and present your wand for registration at the security desk, located at the far end of the Atrium.”

“You remember where?” Lyall asked, and Remus nodded before he remembered that was useless in the dark, and actually said yes. But he didn’t have a wand of his own the last time he was here, and he had not been without it since it was purchased. Lyall must have heard the reservation in his voice, because he added quickly, “They don’t actually take it, you know.”

Remus had to stop himself from sighing with relief. His shoulder ached where it was pressed against the side of the telephone box, though, and he very much wanted off this ride.

It was then, in a timely manner, golden light burst through the lowest of the glass panels to light up their shoes, rising up their bodies as they neared the end of their journey and came at last into the Atrium. Remus put a hand up to shield his eyes as the light engulfed their heads, until finally the telephone box was free-floating down to the dark, polished floor.

They had emerged into a long, sprawling hall that was practically bursting at the seams with activity. All along the walls were gilded fireplaces protruding in even increments from the dark, wooden paneling, and every few seconds a witch or wizard would emerge in a brilliant blaze of green flame and disappear into the crowd. Across the way it was the opposite: several queues stood in orderly fashion to depart. The peacock-blue ceiling was a river flowing with golden symbols and letters which constantly changed. Remus never knew what they were supposed to mean, or if they even had a purpose besides impressing those less skilled in charms. Some of the symbols were familiar, even recognizable. But they never appeared in the same order twice, and if it was a message for someone, it was a terrible way to deliver it.

“The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant day,” the female voice said at last, as the base of the telephone box touched solid ground once more. The door sprung open and Lyall emerged first, followed by Remus, who couldn’t help but glance hungrily around at everything happening around him.

“It’s rather impressive, don’t you think?” said Lyall as he started walking, leading Remus in the direction of a set of golden gates at the end of the hall.

“It is,” Remus agreed, but in a bittersweet way: as a child, he remembered feeling only pure awe at the sight. Now, though that feeling had remained, his experience with magic meant it could never be as impressive as before. And more than that, he felt naked and exposed: there were hundreds of people around him, and somewhere among them were the servants of Voldemort.

They joined the crowd moving towards the gates and passed the centerpiece of the Atrium: the Fountain of Magical Brethren. It was a group of solid gold statues: a wizard, the tallest and grandest of them, whose wand pointed straight into the air. Then a witch beside him, her wand out as well. And grouped around the pair of them, a House Elf, a centaur, and a goblin gazed with complete adoration at their human companions.

Remus was unmoved by the grandeur of it all. In fact, he despised the fountain, and yet he appreciated the message. Not every government was so brazen about their narcissistic and authoritarian policies, but the Ministry managed it well. After all, it wasn’t as though there were any centaurs, goblins, or House Elves around to correct them on their assumptions.

At the base of the fountain, the pool of water was speckled with Knuts and Sickels, and even a Galleon or two. There was a sign explaining that the proceeds were given to St. Mungos Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, and as they walked by Lyall tossed in a few coins into the pool beneath it. Remus didn’t have to ask why.

To the left of the golden gates was a hanging SECURITY notice, and Remus and Lyall departed from the main flow of bodies towards the bland-looking desk just under it. There was a man in blue robes sitting at the desk, and as the pair of men approached him he put down his copy of the Daily Prophet to fix them with an accusing stare.

“Yes?” he huffed.

“I’m escorting my son,” Lyall replied. “He needs to check in.”

The man looked at Remus, then back to Lyall, as if the resemblance wasn’t clear in their height, hair colour, and similarly stressed expressions. “Step over here,” he said, sighing as he was forced to produce a thin, gold rod the width of a pen and passed it over Remus’ front and back. He frowned, placing the instrument back onto his desk.

“Wand,” he grunted, holding out his hand expectantly.

Remus withdrew it from his pocket, handing over it handle-first. The security wizard scrutinized it for a moment before dropping it onto what looked like a brass scale, but with only one plate. It began to vibrate, and the wand rattled against the dish. Remus fought to keep his hands firmly at his sides. When a slip of parchment shot out of a slot at the base of the machine, the security wizard read it aloud.

“Cypress, unicorn core, 10 ¼”, been in use eleven years.” He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he glanced to Remus, who nodded. “Right, I’ll put this on file, and you--” he thrust the wand back at Remus, point-first, “--can have that.”

“Thank you,” said Remus. He put his wand back into his pocket, vowing to never let it go again.

“Sorry about Douglas,” Lyall murmured as they left the security check-in behind and rejoined the throngs headed for the golden gates. “I think he’s just bored.”

“Mm,” Remus replied, pausing to allow a mustachioed man with a smoking crate to scurry by with a look of panic on his face. “I would be, too, working for security for the seat of government in Britain. It must be so dull.”

Lyall smiled, but he did his best to keep that from his son. Remus would have to make a good impression today, and if he let himself become too relaxed then he could become careless and actually speak his mind. Not that Remus was prone to sharing his true thoughts, something Lyall could attest to after years of what felt like pulling teeth the Muggle way--but Remus was also proud, and his tongue was sharp when he wanted it to be. He could easily spark a fire when those around him were as dry as a tinderbox. 

Through the gates, the crowd passed into another, smaller chamber bordered with perhaps twenty or so smaller archways: wrought gold grilles blocking access to a series of lifts, which opened up like the mouths of whales to consume tiny masses of plankton that flocked inside. After only a short wait, Remus and Lyall were packed inside one of the lifts. As it began to ascend, soft music played from somewhere up above, barely audible over the low chatter of the sleepy-eyed day workers.

“Nathan,” Lyall said suddenly, “you’re up late. What are you still doing here?”

Remus looked past his father to see who he was talking to. Nearby, a pale, skinny fellow gave a weak wave. He was fairly easy to spot since the crowd gave him a wide berth. When he smiled, a pair of fangs could be seen protruding from his gums.

“I had to write up some documents,” he sighed. “A man has asked the Office if it is legal to enchant his neighbor’s dog’s… _you know_ ,” he said quietly, so that Lyall had to lean forward to hear him, “--to chase after the poor beast because he is tired of his lawn being used as a disposal site.”

Remus made a noise that was halfway between a cry and a choke. He coughed, turning away quickly as both of the other men looked at him.

 _“Level Seven: Department of Magical Games and Sports,”_ said the female voice from before. The lift doors rattled open and one or two people pushed out, replaced by a group of owls who perched on a special railing overhead. The crowd below them shuffled so as not to be directly underneath them.

“Do you know what the worst part is?” Nathan went on, squeezing in next to Lyall and Remus as the people shuffled around them. “I wanted to tell him that no, it was not legal or moral to scare a poor animal like that, but--but it is not _ill_ egal. As long as he does not do it in front of a Muggle, you know?”

“Absurd,” Lyall said seriously. “Can you tell me anything about the dog?”

Nathan shook his head. “No, just that it is a terrier of some sort.”

Lyall was silent for a moment, and only the sounds of the music and the chains that carried the lift skywards could be heard. Then: “Is it--that is to say, does the dog have any magical blood?”

“I cannot say,” Nathan said, his thick brows coming together. “But why does it matter?”

( _“Level Six: Department of Magical Transport.”_ )

“Oh, it doesn’t,” Lyall said slowly. “It doesn’t. Except that, it’s a terrier, you say? Hm. Did you ever read about the gnome hunts? Oh, sorry—you actually remember them, I suppose? Either way, they’re banned, now, of course, but, well, I wonder if the dog could be part Crup?”

Nathan pursed his lips thoughtfully. And then, he smiled. “An investigation is in order.”

Lyall nodded. “The owner would need proper licensing and all that for any part-Crup, you understand, and I don’t want to send out a false accusation before we fully grasp the situation. And we would be very thorough. _Very_ thorough. Could take _quite_ a long time. But if the dog has some sort of magical blood, even slightly, it could be considered, er, _protected_. By the law. And I for one would hate to see any magical beast abused. Don’t you agree?”

“I will inform the man at once,” said Nathan, standing a bit taller and looking much more at ease.

“I’m glad to have been of help,” Lyall said quietly, and he tugged contentedly on the front of his jumper.

“So am I,” Nathan nodded. His black fringe dipped down into his eyes, and he brushed it out of his face. Perhaps it was his pale complexion or the (relative) lateness of the hour, but he had dark rings under his eyes like he hadn’t slept in days.

“Oh,” said Lyall quickly, and he wrapped an arm around Remus and pulled him close, “I forgot--Nathan, this is my son, Remus.”

“Pleasure,” Remus said. Nathan’s hand was like ice when he shook it, but in the moment their skin met an odd expression passed over Nathan’s face.

“The pleasure is mine,” the vampire said right away, returning to his former pleasant demeanor so quickly that Remus questioned whether it had changed at all. “I have enjoyed working alongside your father for the past eighteen years, and I will be sad to see him go when the time comes.”

“Not for a while,” Lyall chuckled. “I’m not going anywhere. I have too much work to do as it is!”

( _“Level Five: Department for International Magical Cooperation.”_ )

“How long have you been working for the Ministry?” Remus asked.

It was an innocent enough question, and for a man who appeared to be no older than thirty Remus expected an innocent enough answer. But when Nathan sighed thoughtfully and actually began to count to himself, it was clear that that was not the case.

“Well,” Nathan said slowly after the pause, “two weeks into my starting, a centaur tried to assassinate the Minister. That was in… oh, eighteen eighty… one? Two?”

“Oh my God,” Remus said before he could stop himself. But he knew with painful accuracy who Nathan was talking about: Minister Faris "Spout-Hole" Spavin was one of Remus’ least favorite historical figures that he had ever been required to write about. In order to write his essays, he had actually imagined himself yelling passionately about the incalculable number of illogical decisions Minister Spavin had made, like some sort of Vulcan. He didn’t bother explaining his method to the others when they asked: none of them had television growing up. But then, James had no problem with his own essay, not when this was the Minister who oversaw the arrival of Stooging Penalty and changed the game of Quidditch forever.

Remus apologized quickly for his outburst, but Nathan shook his head.

“To me it has not seemed like such a long time,” he said, and there was a quiet, but undeniably youthful air in the way he tried to shrug it off. “I suppose I consider time in a different manner these days.”

Remus would have replied, but the lift had groaned to a stop again.

“ _Level Four_ ,” said the mysterious voice. “ _Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures._ ”

“This is my stop,” Lyall said, smiling apologetically to Remus. He squeezed his son’s shoulder quickly before he had to join the disembarking crowd. “Come and find me when you’ve finished. Tell me the good news.”

He nodded to Nathan and stepped off of the lift and onto the marble floor just as the wrought gold gates slammed behind him, closing him from view.

Remus sighed. _Good news. Right._

There was still a fair number of people in the elevator, though it was much quieter now than it had been. Remus felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand uncomfortably, as he was certain somehow that over the heinous music he was being listened to. Now that his father was gone Remus felt more exposed than ever before, something which made him both uncomfortable to realize, and strengthen his grip on his pocketed wand. None of the other people paid any attention.

“You look nervous,” said a voice, and Remus remembered that he was not technically alone. By way of conversation, he was now linked to Nathan. He wanted to scoff. What kind of a vampire name is _Nathan_?

“I--”, Remus started. “I suppose I am.” There wasn’t much of a point in hiding it. But he didn’t have to like it.

“That is unfortunate. I hope you are not in danger.”

The way Nathan had chosen this as his word of choice brought Remus’ eyes up. Nathan was looking at him, and he seemed a wholly different man than before. The tired rings beneath his eyes gave them a piercing, haunted look. They betrayed him as an old man trapped in a body that did not match the painful experiences of his spirit. They pinned Remus to the floor, and within them he saw the unmistakable sorrow of recognizing another’s plight; of a most unfortunate kinship.

Remus’ stomach contracted sharply. “I don’t--”

“You have nothing to fear from me,” Nathan said quietly. “As I said, I have known your father for many years. We were not as well acquainted then, but I remember when he disappeared for a short time after his family suffered a terrible tragedy.” 

Remus couldn’t speak. His eyes darted to the other commuters waiting to depart, but none of them gave the slightest indication of having overheard. Still, that did not stop his heart lodging itself painfully inside his throat. Remus swallowed, trying to find the space for words he couldn’t form.

“I hope you will not consider me too forward,” Nathan went on beside him. “I have been accused of becoming tawdry over the years. But as I have come to know your father, I have gained much respect for him. And for how he treats those around him. I have seen good people suffer for reasons that are wholly ungood. I do not know what is different about you, but when I shook your hand I could feel that you are not like the people here.”

Remus’ voice had nearly failed him. “...How?” he asked.

“It is nothing you did, of course,” Nathan said carefully. “When I shook your hand, I could feel it: there is something within your blood. And it makes you sick. You would taste terrible.”

If Remus hadn’t been so shaken, he may have been almost offended. Or terrified. “Oh?” he said, and his voice cracked like a teen.

Nathan smiled. And then he laughed. “Yes,” he said, and once again he had somehow softened into the man of youth. “I cannot explain it. It is as though you are anaemic. I suppose that is something useful to know if you are like me.”

Remus nodded slowly. “I suppose…”

“I am sorry to have startled you, Remus,” Nathan said. “May I call you by your first name?” Remus nodded, so Nathan went on: “I have great respect for your father. And I hope you will consider me an ally here at the Ministry, where they are in painfully short supply.”

“ _Level Two_ ,” said the female voice. “ _Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”_

Already? Remus blinked, and cleared his throat. “This is me,” he said stupidly, adding, “My stop. This is my stop.”

“I can see that,” Nathan smiled. “And mine as well. Though for different reasons.”

Remus found that he couldn’t think, and chose the diplomatic response of silence. Nathan did not appear to mind. He stepped off of the lift and waited for Remus to follow.

“Please give your father my thanks,” he said, resting his hands in his pockets.

Remus shifted. “I will.”

“I admit, I have some concerns over how to word my letter to the gentleman. I can be tactless, and it is rather late.”

“I don’t think he has any either, asking the Ministry for permission to do something like that.”

“True,” said Nathan, chuckling quietly. “Well, I had better be going, then. Good luck with your criminal investigation.”

He waved goodbye as he disappeared into one of the crisscrossing hallways, and it was only after the sounds of his footsteps disappeared that Remus realized with a jolt what he meant. He grabbed the front of his jacket and tucked it so that the visitors pin was inside, facing his chest. It couldn’t have said anything worse.

As the lift closed and continued upwards without him, Remus suddenly realized how alone he was. The dark halls were empty now except for him, and his footsteps echoed loudly as he took each cautious step forward. He had no idea where to go, and he regretted not asking Nathan for directions.

But then, he didn’t know what to think about him, either. Or any of this. He was ready to go back home, to his bed.

There was a signpost that pointed with moving hands to Auror Headquarters when he asked, and Remus followed the hallway into the deep recesses of the Ministry. He thought he could hear the rumble of a train go by in the distance, its passengers completely unaware of the offices they were surrounded by. The chandeliers above him gave the slightest swivel.

Remus came to a black wooden door, and mounted on the wall beside it was a golden plaque that read _Auror Headquarters._ He took hold of the golden doorknob and turned.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: 62442 spells m-a-g-i-c on a phone.


	5. Hard Truths

There were two important things to remember with respect to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement: part of it belonged to the Aurors; the rest of it did not.

The DMLE was the largest of all the Departments within the Ministry. Arguably, it was also the most important: all other Departments, including that of the Minister of Magic, were answerable to this one. Save, that is, the Department of Mysteries--but no one spoke much about it, or its relationship to the rest of the departments. Those employed within were known as Unspeakables for a reason, and whatever went on down there was best left to them.

What people did talk about--and frequently--were those within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement who kept everyone safe; who looked the most evil among us in the eye without fear. People talked a lot about the Aurors.

And why not? The very title tugged on the public imagination, conjuring powerful  images of late nights spent chasing criminals over rooftops like something from an Ian Fleming novel. The very mention of them sent ripples of intrigue through the populace. Everyone wanted to be one. Everyone wanted to know one. No one wanted to cross one. 

It was all so romantic on paper. The reality was far less enchanting. 

Remus stepped into the Auror Headquarters and the door clicked softly closed behind him. Before him was a vast, open space honeycombed with cubicles and bathed in the sounds of chit chat and laughter, and Remus let himself pause to enjoy the mundanity of it for just a moment. He watched as owls went from cubicle to cubicle, passing interdepartmental memos with the silent motion of wings.

“Can I help you?”

Remus looked up. Sitting before the mass of cubicles was a handsome, crescent-shaped desk. And seated behind it was a blond man who was watching Remus expectantly. He wore a blue shirt with golden buttons under black robes, and on his tie was a pin with the Department logo. It was all very smart, and Remus was suddenly very aware of his scuffed leather shoes and creased trousers.

“I, er,” he said quickly, "I'm here to see Auror Moody."

Over thick, horn-rimmed glasses, one of the receptionist's eyebrows rose sharply. The man looked Remus up and down curiously before checking his notes on the desk. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No,” said Remus slowly. He resisted the urge to rub his fingers together. “Not exactly. He sent a letter for me, asking to meet with me as soon as possible.”

“And you didn’t make an appointment?”

“No,” Remus said. “I didn’t think I would need one.”

“I see,” said the man. He took a moment to shuffle through the papers on his desk. “As I’m sure you can appreciate, the Aurors are very busy. I’m not sure that anyone can see you without prior notice.”

Remus' stomach clenched. He didn't want to think about having to come back. He reached for his pockets, about to search for the note within. But from the corner of his eye, he realized that there was someone else--a member of security, standing beside the doorway he had entered by. He had reached down for his wand. Remus stopped trying.

"I have the letter," he said instead. “I can show you.”

“Oh, I believe you,” replied the secretary, unfazed by the silent exchange. “But I'm not certain there will be an opening for you today. Have a seat over there, if you don’t mind, and I’ll let him know that you asked to see him.”

Remus did so, sighing inaudibly and checking his watch. It was quarter to nine. His stomach gave the smallest rumble. He hadn’t eaten much for breakfast, and he didn’t know when he would eat again. Lack of sleep made his eyeballs feel tight. He realized suddenly that the man had never asked for his name and wanted to curse, but he kept himself in line. He tried not to glare at him and his fancy desk, but thought it better to look away in case he failed and made a bleak situation even worse.

He was seated on a long, wooden bench that rested along the wall opposite security. It needed resurfacing, and Remus wondered how many people had sat here before him, had been in his situation. He wondered what had become of them. He sighed again, a little louder this time now that he was at a comfortable distance from the secretary. 

Remus watched as the secretary reached across his desk to grab hold of a two-piece ceramic bowl with legs, removing the lid to expose a tiny spark of flame levitating within. He reached for a smaller, metal dish and extracted just a pinch of black powder to toss into the fire which immediately turned an unmistakable shade of green and grew three times in size. The fingers curled and danced with vigor as the secretary leaned in carefully, speaking quickly into the basin before the powder burnt out and the flame returned to normal. Remus couldn’t make out what he was saying, but he hoped that the message was for Moody. He had little faith that it was. His left leg bounced traitorously beneath him. 

Waiting. It was always this way with waiting. Remus liked to consider himself a patient man, but his stomach twisted out of more than just hunger and he felt like he ought to just get up and go searching for Alastor on his own. As an unwelcome intruder in a room full of trained Aurors he wouldn’t make it far, but maybe he would get the attention of the one he actually needed. 

Good. Get the terrible ideas out first, he thought. Get them out of your system.

This was why waiting areas had magazines, Remus thought woefully. But he was rather uninterested in Witch Weekly’s guide to beautiful tea-time bakes, and opted to look around. The room was wide and strangely vast: Remus could see the far wall of the room, could see the rough size of the space taken up by the massive cluster of cubicles. And yet knowing that there had to be at least a hundred Aurors, it didn’t seem like this room could possibly be big enough for all of them. It occurred to Remus that magical architecture was truly something incredible. He imagined what the true shape of the Ministry must be, like some sort of three-dimensional key weaving in and out of not only the Underground, but hundreds of thousands of miles of plumbing, sewage, ancient crypts, and even the vaults of Gringotts and the mass of tunnels and caves the goblins used to keep their secrets. The deeper into the ground visitors were, the newer the construction.

Along the walls, the room was much the same as any office, lined with windows to let in the light. Today it was soft; unseasonably warm but comforting. Magical Maintenance must have been content: Remus remembered Lyall complaining one night over dinner about them keeping the windows set to monsoon while they vied for raises. Occasionally a human figure would cross in front of the false glass, silhouetting themselves as they went. And there were plenty of voices, though they were muffled and irregular as office chatter is wont. An owl hooted somewhere towards the back of the room.

Arguably the most commanding feature was right where Remus sat: rather than another artificial window, a massive tank had been set into the wall above the visitors bench. Brimming with ribbons of kelp, it was lit dimly enough that Remus couldn't see how far back into the wall it actually went. He glanced reflexively towards the top of the tank, to the surface of the water. A vibrant green curtain of duckweed and lilypads prevented him from seeing where the light source came from, but the flecks of blue in the ripples shifting the surface hinted at an artificial sky. Crawling along the glass beside him, Remus noticed several small, black-shelled snails and a spotted fish with a large, O-shaped mouth sucking on a patch of algae near his head. In the waters beyond, a silvery school of fish darted through the kelp. And in the shadow of a hollow log, Remus could make out the sharp horns and teeth of a grindylow. It made a face at him as he watched it, scuttling back into the log and away from prying eyes.

_ Lakes of Yorkshire,  _ said a plaque below the tank. Beside it was another, larger sign which read:

_ This grindylow was rescued from Porter Beach, Sheffield, where it was living in a submerged shopping trolley. Unable to return to the wild due to injury, it is cared for by the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and has continued to thrive under the watchful eyes of its caretakers. _

There was something within that statement that spoke to Remus, though he didn’t know what. He read it again, a little slower this time, but when that did not ease the feeling he scooted over on the bench to get a better glimpse of the log, and of the grindylow inside. The nictitating membranes over its eyes gave it a cold, glossy expression as though it were dead, though the steady pulsing of its gills told otherwise. And its scales, though still a sickly shade of green, were dull and grayish. 

Remus couldn’t help but feel that even for a creature that lived in a heavily populated office, the grindylow must be quite lonely. 

“That’s Gerald.”

Remus jumped. Not enough for anyone to notice, but when he turned, he thought that it showed and tried hard to correct his posture. It was Moody, and he was staring in the hardened way one does when they’re about to begin something uncomfortable. 

“Gerald?” Remus asked.

“Yes,” Moody nodded gruffly, “ _ Gerald _ . Now come along, Lupin, we haven’t got all day.”

Robes billowing, Moody turned and headed towards the mass of cubicles. Every other footstep was a strangled thump. Remus followed him inside. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you had arrived?” asked Moody, not stopping to look at Remus as he walked. 

“I spoke with the secretary,” said Remus. “He said you were busy, but that he’d let you know that I visited.”

“Bah.” Moody waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t you know that’s a trap? Quill-pushers say that to get you to wait, hoping you’ll get tired of it and decide to leave on your own. Everything’s got to be done by the books with these people. If you’d replied to my owl, or sent one of your own, you wouldn’t have waited there. Hope it wasn’t too long.”

Remus was going to say that it really wasn’t very long at all, though it felt otherwise. But something else came to mind first, and was much more pressing: “So then how did you know I was here at all? How did you know to come and fetch me?”

Now Moody did stop, though only long enough to turn to Remus sharply, magical eye swirling round to pin him with its icy blue stare. “Guess,” said Moody, and kept on. 

Being inside the labyrinth of cubicles was a completely different experience than observing from afar. It was louder, and the state of clutter was slightly alarming. There was  _ so much _ to look at, and yet owls darted back and forth and made Remus flinch with the impulse to duck that no one else shared. Silent wings clipped his ears at one point. Or was it the envelope clasped in talons? It was almost unbearable to resist bowing his head.

Each cubicle was its own story; its own planet orbiting the Auror it served. Where one had Hollyhead Harpies posters and World Cup paraphernalia, its neighbour had a small zen garden and a fish bowl filled with a miniature jungle mountain, complete with clouds. Another was strung with red and yellow cloth, tenting the cubicle and casting the entire space in soft shadow. A pair of floor lamps and another desk lamp gave the space the feel of a comfortable reading room rather than an office. 

The Aurors themselves seemed to be just as diverse. There was one whose desk was slowly flooding as he tried to get on with his work. A rain cloud hovered over his head, and from the look of the levitating umbrella overhead, it wasn’t by choice. He groaned in despair as he leaned for a few papers and accidentally filled his teacup with runoff. Further down a bald man had his feet up on his desk, dictating to an electric blue peacock quill. A long, winding scar snaked across the back of his skull, bright red contrasting starkly with his pale skin. He played with his wand as he did so, sliding the tip up and down his fingers with one precise, yet graceful movement of his wrist. He had a dangerous air about him.  Further still, a tall woman with warm, brown skin was neck-deep in paperwork, sifting through old Muggle photographs and cataloging then one by one. Each one was of a small cat, and on the wall in front of her seat there was a wanted poster of a hulking, brutish man with suspiciously similar scarring on his left ear. She was making hasty, yet carefully drawn notes on a map, as though she were planning to go after him, and soon.

Suddenly the cubicles gave way as they exited the cluster. Remus blinked: it was slightly jarring, like flowing through a river and falling over a very unexpected waterfall. There was a large, empty space in between the cubicles and the end of the hall whose emptiness alone was meant to be impressive. Without anything on either side, all eyes were suddenly, forcibly drawn to the back wall, where an enormous mural commanded the empty space. On the left, the seal of the Ministry of Magic. And on the right, the seal of the Auror division. Both of them were made of gold, and they reflected off of the black, hardwood floor in pale, distorted ripples. They dwarfed the door that stood gallantly between them, no doubt for the Head of the office.

The walls to the left and right of the mural were divided into large, private offices by tall, frosted glass partitions. These must have belonged to senior officers, for Moody led Remus to the far right, into one of the farthest offices. When Moody passed inside and made for his desk Remus paused just long enough to try and spot the entrance, to the secretary or even the grindylow tank. He couldn’t see any of them. The volume dropped considerably upon passing through the doorway, and Remus was suddenly very aware of what was about to happen next.

“Sit,” said Moody, easing himself slowly into his seat and reaching for the flask at his side. His icy-blue eye swirled, and swirled, and Moody squinted distractedly as he let whatever was in his drink pass through his system. Pain potion, if Remus had any guess by the disgusted expression. He’d taken enough to know. 

And it was understandable: the eye was not a year old yet, at least as far as Moody was concerned. Remus didn’t know where it had come from. He didn’t think he wanted to know. Unbidden, Remus was brought back to the first time he saw Moody after the attack that gave it him; to how his breath hitched in his chest, and how Alastor Moody, the greatest Auror of all time, had frowned. It was the closest thing to a self-conscious reaction he had ever seen from Moody, and Remus was ashamed to have been the cause. It was a private moment that he should never have been a part of. 

Remus pulled up the guest chair and sat down.

Moody sighed, leaning forward and grumbling to himself as he shifted a stack of papers about his desk. He took up his quill in one hand, drawing the first sheet off of a small stack with the other and grumbling some more. A man like Moody would never trust a quill to sign documents on his behalf, and Remus couldn’t blame him. And yet, with his worn, leather trench coat and long, grizzling hair, Moody was a peculiar site to see behind a desk. His office reflected this in its minimalist decoration: it lacked all manner of decor, personal or otherwise. No plants, no paintings, no photos--though behind the desk and off to the side were a pair of discreet shelves on which several awards and medals were displayed. Any other decorated officer would show them off with pride, but for Moody it was never about the reward, and it showed. 

“You can read them,” Moody said, and Remus stiffened. Moody sighed. “I’m not going to hex you for looking, Lupin.”

Remus didn’t know what to say to that, so he just nodded. He stayed where he was.

Moody paused, and for the first time he gave Remus a thorough once-over. “I hear you have an interview later,” he said. 

Maybe it was his permanently unhappy expression, but Remus couldn’t tell if this was an interview or the start of a conversation.

“My father thinks it might be a good idea to work here. Less dangerous than working out in the wider world while there’s trouble brewing.”

“I happen to agree,” Moody said, filing the stack of papers into his outbox. In the corner opposite the medals, the owl he had sent to the Lupin house pretended to preen while she kept one eye on them both. “But you don’t seem to like the idea.”

“No,” said Remus, “it’s not that. It’s a sound idea, and it makes sense.”

“Then there’s no argument,” Moody said, and he fixed Remus with shrewd look. “You don’t have the luxury of rattling your chains right now.”

Remus said nothing. He felt a flash of irritation which he immediately resented. He fidged unconsciously. 

Moody wasn’t known for his casual conversation. Or his personal conversation, when it came down to it. Remus had never seen him eat, had never seen him drink out of anything but his hipside flask; had never heard him talk about anything that could resemble  _ friendship _ with another human--or even a pet, for that matter. Moody hardly talked at all, unless it was relevant to the case. He was top in his field for a reason, and it wasn’t because of his approachable manner. 

This was never a problem for Remus. He could appreciate the need to keep details close. And despite any rough edges and the well-kept distance, Remus had developed a respect for Moody that the battles they had fought together had done nothing but nurture. Remus did not need to be close to Moody to respect him. But that also made this conversation stand out. 

Remus realized he was being sized up.

“What was it that you wanted to see me about?” he said carefully.

Moody gave a quick, humourless chuckle. “I have something you might like.”

Beside his desk was a filing cabinet, which Moody leaned over and gave an abrupt slap. The top drawer opened and extended as though it were spring-loaded--only, it didn’t stop. The row of files was endless, rolling and rolling until it hit the back wall. And then, it shuddered. The cabinet groaned, tilting slightly in the direction of the door. Moody was quick to grab one of the many files before anything more dramatic followed, pounding again on the cabinet and causing the drawer to reel back in with a  _ woosh _ . Remus examined the file warily. 

“It’s yours,” Moody confirmed. “And I think you’ll enjoy the contents.”

Placing the folder on his desk, Moody opened it with care before turning it around. The first piece inside was a form for the Aurors: a streamlined report for ease of use. Remus saw his name, his former address, and paragraphs of detailed summary. Mrs. Chambers had provided a written statement, and Remus hovered over her handwriting with an odd sense of loss. She was someone far too kind to have been caught up in all this. 

And then there were the photographs. Tucked together in a neat stack, they made up the bulk of the folder’s weight. There were more than a dozen—no, easily more than three dozen. Remus could shuffle them like playing cards if he wanted, but he couldn’t hold them all at once for their sheer number. Most of them were of the Dark Mark bleeding through the woodwork. The floor would need to be replaced, but something told Remus that Moody would see to that. (No one wanted to see an elderly woman pay dearly for such a thing, and moreover the work couldn’t be done by Muggles anyway.) Some assorted photos depicted the destruction: the open fridge, the milk still trickling across the floor in perpetuity, the shattered sink and mirror from the bathroom, his bedroom and all his belongings strewn across the floor… 

Inside his chest, something in Remus gave a twinge. He thought he should be feeling something, because for all intents he was upset. Or, he—he needed to be, wanted to be? But there was a stubborn emptiness instead, like in the moment between the impact and the pain. Remus chose to ignore this. 

There was one last thing: another folder, marked  _ Leads _ . It was empty. At this, Remus’ mouth twitched. It was neither a smile, nor a frown. 

“I knew you would like it,” Moody said. “You know what this means.”

“Yes, but it’s nothing we didn’t already know,” Remus sighed. “This is how they’ve always tried to operate.”

Fighting the Death Eaters was an uphill battle. They outnumbered the Order by twenty to one at the end—for every innocent person coming forward to claim they were bewitched, for every captured member brought to justice, there were hundreds more that the Order simply had no knowledge of. Those who weren’t declared innocent were gone now. It was the obscure who remained, and often they were far more dangerous, far more deadly.

“It means there’s no suspects,” Remus said, and now it was his turn to look expectant. 

“It means our pool of suspects just narrowed,” Moody offered. 

“Does it?” Remus scoffed. He couldn’t help himself, much as it sent his insides coiling. “This means that you have no leads. This means that it could be just about anyone.”

“I took you for a clever man,” Moody said. “It means that this is someone we haven’t tracked before. It means we don’t have to waste time on old leads. This is somebody who has managed not only to remain undiscovered, but for some reason is targeting  _ you.” _

“I’m ex-Order, same as you,” Remus argued. “That’s enough for these people.”

“Not for this one,” Moody replied. “You have something that none of us do, and it’s important enough that it singles you out. It’s obvious.”

Remus gave himself a once-over in his mind, but came up blank. He shook his head.

Moody frowned. “You’re the last one with connections to the Potters.”

Remus felt the colour drain from him as the words hit, rolling over him like a truck. But instead of the pain he expected from impact, he felt… far away. He could almost see himself sitting at the desk, as though he were floating just behind his own head. He felt his guts constricting and his heart pound, but they held no relevance. 

And then, all at once, he was somewhere else. 

_ “Remus,” said Lily, and she was so happy despite her audible exhaustion. “Remus, this is Harry.” _

_ “They can’t expect us to stay hidden forever.  _ Dumbledore  _ can’t.” But James wavered. “Can he?” _

_ “Where do they live?” Moody asked, and Remus tried picturing the house he knew like home—only, there was blackness. A deep veil, like a void. He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember anything about it. Good. Good, it meant that the spell had worked. Now they would be safe. _

_ “I am terribly sorry, Remus,” said Dumbledore. “James and Lily Potter have been murdered.” _

Remus realized how harsh the lighting was quite suddenly. He blinked again, trying to banish the searing yellows of the artificial sun, but all he managed to do was disorient himself in his seat and he swayed. 

“Lupin,” said Moody again. “You’re white as a sheet. Don’t go getting sick on my carpet.”

“Not,” said Remus. “M’not.” He ran his hands down his face. He was sweating slightly, but his insides were cold as ice. He felt Moody watching him and it took everything in him to restrain his legs and not bolt out the door.

“You and Dumbledore are the only ones,” Moody went on slowly, “and there’s not a witch or wizard who would dare go after Dumbledore.” 

“They’re  _ dead _ ,” Remus snapped. But this didn’t make sense. None of this made sense. “What else could the Death Eaters possibly want from them?”

“Not from them. From you.”

“From me?” Remus snorted without any humour in it. “That’s absurd. I don’t have anything worth taking and if they’ve been watching me then they would know that!”

“Don’t underestimate these people,” Moody warned. 

“I’m telling you” Remus said, “I don’t have anything. They took  _ everything.  _ James and Lily are  _ dead,  _ Peter is  _ dead,  _ Harry is  _ gone— _ there is  _ nothing left!  _ There is  _ nothing _ they could want from me.”

Moody said nothing. He glowered, passing his eyes up and down across Remus where he sat. He swallowed, a move that heightened the deep look of disapproval growing on his face. When he next met Remus’ eye, he sighed. And then, he scowled.

“You’ve gone sloppy, Lupin.”

Remus balked. “Excuse me?”

“You still haven’t come to terms with their deaths, have you, boy?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You can lie. But if you don’t get over what happened and stop pretending the war is over—“

“It  _ is  _ over. Voldemort is gone.”

“A Death Eater is hunting you, and you’re blind to the facts! I knew the end of the war hit you hard; death hits everyone hard. But do you really think you’re the only one who lost people?”

“Of course not!”

“Then stop acting like it.”

This blow, Remus felt. And it stung.

Moody fixed Remus with a cold stare. “You’re stuck. You’re going through the motions just to get by, and it isn’t enough. Every day is like the weight of an erumpent on your chest.

“How far has it gone?” he asked. “Just looking at you, I’d say you haven’t slept well in weeks. And you were always a skinny fellow, but from the look of your face, you haven’t had an appetite either. Nothing tastes right. Nothing feels right. You’re not living—you’re  _ existing _ .”

Remus tried to respond--or, he meant to. But the air had left his lungs and he could only stare, mouth half open and then not. He couldn’t respond if he wanted to. Everything Moody was saying—all these things Remus had kept to himself… 

Moody grunted, satisfied. He leant back in his chair, letting his point sink in deep. 

“I know what you’re feeling,” he said after a moment, “because I’ve been there. It’s true,” he added quietly, Remus looking up at him again. “It may come as a shock to you, but I work in a dangerous profession. Good people die all the time, for terrible reasons. Sometimes no reason at all. So believe me when I tell you that if you don’t get yourself together, you’re going to lose a lot more than you already have.”

But Remus didn’t think there was anything else. Nothing that carried the weight that his friends did. Nothing could replace them.

Moody must have seen this in his face, because he leaned forward over his desk. 

“Don’t spend so much time in the past that you can’t see what’s in front of you,” he said. “Your father is risking his own life to shelter you. He’s doing everything he can to protect you. And Lyall may be a good man but he’s not Order. And if you don’t open your eyes, then they’re going to kill him, Lupin, because they’ll do anything they can to get to you. Whatever it is they want, they’ll stop at nothing to get it. They’re operating on their own. They had to break in to your flat before you realized there was a problem--you’re lucky to be sitting there. What will it take to stop them finding you again, from killing your family? Killing you? Or do you not care anymore?”

“I—“ Remus started, then stopped. He didn’t know what to say. He felt shame flood him, and he looked away. He— _ didn’t _ care, if he was honest, something he avoided thinking about. But he couldn’t help but think now of his father, of how he had come straight away when Remus called, how he had welcomed—no, invited—Remus home. He thought about his father watching his house be slowly packed away, and yet bringing takeaway because he was worried for Remus’ sake rather than his own, just like all the luncheons—luncheons they had only ever had in the last year, when Remus had thought himself better off dead and had nearly made himself that way. 

All this time, Remus had imagined himself alone. Buried by grief, it was hard to see the hands reaching out for him, but with a sinking feeling Remus realized he hadn’t been blind to Lyall’s gestures or his intention. He just hadn’t cared. 

“I-- ...,” he tried again, but he couldn’t find the words. He didn’t think there were any words.

“Don’t apologize,” Moody replied. “You’re not the first to get this lecture. Just don’t make me repeat it.”

There was a throbbing behind both of his eyes, and Remus felt as though he couldn’t hold himself up straight enough. But he pushed to swallow the tacky ball of slime in the back of his throat. He had to do better.

“Do you have any idea what they want?” he asked. 

The question was dangerously broad, and he stumbled to try and flesh out anything else that might help. James and Lily. His connection to the Potters—but they were dead. Whatever connection he had to them was six feet under. Old things, perhaps? Documents? Books? That might explain why they searched his home. But not why they waited til he was gone; not why they so obviously wanted him alive. 

Whatever it is they wanted, it was something new. It was something to do with the Potters, who were the last ones to face Voldemort before Harry—

He stopped.  _ Harry _ ? 

This last he vocalized, and Moody frowned, though it was contemplative and deathly serious.

“Whatever that boy did, whatever happened that night, he’s the reason for You-Know-Who’s disappearance. If I were one of his following and I wanted answers, I’d start there.”

It made sense. In the aftermath, the whole world was asking: how did a baby defeat the Dark Lord? Harry Potter was just over a year old when he became The Boy Who Lived—without any explanation or understanding. Even Dumbledore could not say how.

And now, Harry was gone. He was safe, which was the important thing. But Dumbledore had made absolutely certain that he was protected, and not even Remus knew where he was. He had his ideas about where he could look, but Dumbledore made it clear: isolation and anonymity were going to protect him far better than any enchantment. As much as Remus had wanted to see him, to go after him, to try and find him? It could mean death. And not just Harry’s.

With Harry impossible to find (and at his age impossible to question even if they did), anyone looking to understand or avenge the fall of Voldemort would have only scraps to make do. And there were only two people left alive who even had a relationship with Harry. One of them sat here, with Moody, and the other—the other was in Azkaban.

“Sirius,” Remus said, involuntary and unwelcome. 

“He was the godfather, wasn’t he?” 

“He still is. You don’t think he could be…?”

Moody shook his head. “The Death Eaters do talk sometimes,” he said, “but the Dementors keep things pretty quiet. We don’t want networking. Cells are individually kept—no prisoner has access to another. If Black were whispering things to his Death Eater friends, we would know.”

And besides, Remus thought miserably, that lead them to the same dead end as before: Harry was only a baby. Unremarkable in every way before this. Even if Sirius has some secret thing to share, it wouldn’t be about the boy. There was simply nothing to tell.

“So then, what?” he pressed. “What do they think they’ll find by coming after me? I wasn’t even there, I was up north on a mission!”

Moody clasped his hands together in front of him. “I don’t know,” he said. It was blunt, but honest. “This is our only working theory, and since you’re the only one left with a direct tie to the Potter boy, I doubt it’s a leap. Whoever they are, they’ve gone to great lengths to keep us in the dark. But they’re going to make a mistake eventually, and with this in mind you can keep yourself and your father that much safer.”

Remus nodded, despite the fact that it was a wholly unsatisfying answer. But Moody was the best in his field: no one else could do this job like him. Remus was disappointed, but not afraid. 

“Thank you,” he said. And sensing the end of the meeting he got up to leave, but Moody held out a hand.

“You didn’t think I would call you here just for that, did you?” he said. “No, I have something for you.”

Remus was about to ask what it was but Moody held up a finger. He reached under his desk, near the legs of his chair, and slid a briefcase across the desk. It was leather, and the few dings on its sides told of gentle use. But what Remus was most struck by was the unmistakable lettering across the top:  _ Professor R J Lupin.  _ He reached out, the tips of his fingers confirming the existence of the impossibility before his eyes.

“Where did you find this?” he nearly choked. 

“Closet,” said Moody, “I was looking for evidence and thought you might need it for a job, but was empty. I wasn’t aware you used to teach.”

Remus felt his face go slightly pink and he flustered: “I—no, this is a—it’s from my friends,” he managed. “James and Lily and Peter and… and… —They gave it to me as a gift, as a laugh. They, er, wanted me—thought that perhaps I should become a teacher.”

“Hm,” was all Moody replied, but he shuffled in his seat and he wore a small, lopsided grin. “I’ve put the intact belongings I could find in there for you. Books, mostly, but some clothes that weren’t destroyed, that sort of thing.”

“Thank you,” was all Remus could reply, too stunned and far too grateful to find proper words.

Moody only nodded. “Go back to your father. Tell him what we know, and what we don’t. And then lay low. Have you thought about the relocation?”

“We’re already packing.”

“Good. Good. I’ll be in touch,” he said, extending his hand. Remus gladly shook it. 

He left Moody’s office after that. He passed through the cubicles without seeing them, past the grindylow and its enclosure, past the receptionist who watched him go with a disapproving frown. Several people said good morning in the hall, but Remus did not hear. He rode the elevator alone, clutching his briefcase tight. He emerged onto his floor and his feet led him down the hall by memory. Straight, then left, right, and all the way to the back, to a tiny room with a few sparse desks and the only person he wanted to see.

“Remus!” said Lyall, looking up in surprise. He stood up to greet him. “How did—“ He stopped abruptly as Remus embraced him. It wasn’t happy, but it wasn’t sad, either, and Lyall hesitated. 

“I’m sorry, Dad,” Remus said, before Lyall could speak. “I’m so sorry.”

Lyall’s mind was still half in his work as much as in shock. But he dropped his quill and let the ink run across the parchment he’d been writing on, reaching up to return the embrace. 

“It’s alright,” he said quickly, not knowing what this was about but not caring, either. He squeezed harder and let go, pushing Remus away to get a look at his face. “We’re in this together, right?” he offered, and Remus nodded. Lyall would never know the value of those simple words in that moment.

“Here,” he said instead, “sit, sit. I’ll get you some tea. Tell me what happened.”

Remus did so, once again sitting across from a desk but this time with the weight of responsibility pushing on him. He wasn’t sure where he should begin, and it felt more like opening a can of worms than simply detailing the facts. But when Lyall didn’t simply sit at his desk and instead pulled up a chair beside him, Remus could only think of one thing ne needed desperately to say:

“Dad,” he said. “Thank you. For everything.”


End file.
